


Bullets Over the Bayou

by mattzerella_sticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Conspiracy, Corruption, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Gay Dean Winchester, Guns, Internal Conflict, Louisiana, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Murder Mystery, Near Death Experiences, Period-Typical Homophobia, Police Officer Castiel (Supernatural), Rigged Systems, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25919773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Everyone wants Castiel Novak to quit the force, including Castiel. But he stays on despite the toxic work environment he’s surrounded by. Still believing he can do some good despite the many lines of red tape impeding him. Luckily, a pair of scissors by the name of Dean Winchester drops into his hands, and he finally feels like he can do some good.Dean Winchester thought he would be in New Orleans for a day or two. Identify the body of his deadbeat father and then move on. No one knows he’s here. His mother and brother are blissfully unaware of the danger his father roped him into. With a parting gift of a journal, delivered to him the same day he received word about his father, Dean has become the target of a group of people who want him dead. The same people who killed his father.Racing against the clock, can Dean and Castiel figure out what is so important about John Winchester’s journal that someone would kill for it?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2020





	1. An Introduction Through Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all!
> 
> Can't wait for y'all to get into the story below, but before I do I want to say a few things. I want to thank both my artist, dontbelasagnax and the mods at the Harlequin Challenge for giving me a chance to write this. When the challenge was first going around, I actually didn't sign up. I had a lot on my plate and knew I wouldn't have the time.
> 
> But then things change, and suddenly I have more time on my hands then I know what to do with... Anyway, the original writer for this story dropped, and dontbelasagnax was in a bit of a pickle. I saw the situation in the discord and reached out, and was given the all-clear to start 😀
> 
> You can find the art post for Bullets Over the Bayou here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925512?fbclid=IwAR241O7vnz3xzKDPK2SIEt-GVD9h_XbroJq7Y_xkm7xR0VcEd44qE_G3GeE.
> 
> Anyway, thank you to those who read this - the story will now start below!

Castiel finishes marking up his last paper, scribbling over the form with reckless abandon. He drops the still-smoking pen and waves his work so ink can dry. When done, he slides it on top of the box alongside all the others. A day’s work done seconds before his shift ends. Castiel leans back in his seat, takes his glasses off and wipes them down with his tie.

Suddenly a blurry shadow dashes across his desk, flinging a dense manila folder across his desk that lands on where the last one was. “Got another one for you, Mickey.” Scattered chuckles erupt around the room, imaginary fingers pointed at him. He sighs; shutting out their grating laughter like he trained himself to do months ago. Instead opens the file and prepares for another late shift and no overtime.

His pen scratches at the blank space on top, except it leaves no mark. Castiel tries again, and then a third time. Both went like the first. He shakes the tiny plastic, glaring at it with a ferocity other officers reserved for when he walked into the break room. Still… nothing. Faster, now, he throttles the pen until suddenly the ink flows out the tip. Stains his wrinkled, white button-up with a dark spot that quickly spreads.

Everyone laughs this time.

“Hey, Mickey, the pen was only doing its job!”

“Even the office supplies got it out for him…”

“Just like a _rat_ – always making a mess of themselves.”

He stares at his desk, hands flat against the wood while he counts to ten in his head. When finished, Castiel rises from his seat and leaves the office as his co-workers’ mockery tapers off. Only the cruelest among them keeping it alive.

Protect and serve. That is what Castiel thought he would be doing when signing up as a police officer nearly five years ago. Practiced this creed in the years that followed from the academy, rising through the ranks of the New Orleans Police Department. Worked exhausting beats and took any case that floated through to prove himself worthy. Studied until his mind went numb days on end so he could achieve the highest marks possible. Handled the job his way, how he knew it should be in his heart. Time after time no matter what anyone said what he was _supposed_ to be doing, firing back with his own expectations for how theyshould operate. Castiel thought it meant something when he was promoted, a reward for rising above the traditional expectations. A gift with no strings attached.

How easily they can be cut. He lost it three months after his promotion – all because Castiel ranked _honesty_ over brotherhood. Following that damned investigation, he was excommunicated; shunted into the forgotten wastelands of desk duty until the hazing became too much for Castiel and he quit on his own terms.

The letter of resignation remains unsigned; Castiel would not give them the satisfaction.

He shuffles towards the supply closet, fixing the crooked set of his wire frames on the way. “Why they put it on the other side of the precinct…” Castiel navigates twists and turns until he recognizes the framed picture of their current police chief standing proudly in front of an American flag. Taken at the ceremony where the mayor handed him the reigns after Michael stepped down. A very star-studded affair despite its contents, Castiel heard even the state’s governor – Mr. Shurley – was there. Nick grinned the entire day, most likely imagining the pay raise that came with the title. At least seeing the iconography signals he nears the supply closet, waiting for him behind a water cooler.

Voices carry from around the corner, becoming louder the closer Castiel walks near them. He pauses, back pressed against the wall, glancing at the photo of his boss in silent conference. Who could it be? Castiel peeks out from behind his cover, studying the argument at a distance.

First, he recognizes Uriel. Placed his voice immediately, familiar with his barking tones. Castiel suffered through them near constantly. But the second man is a mystery. Back turned, the only details he notes are his tawny hair, bowlegs, and the refreshing midwestern drawl that stands apart from the muddled Cajun Castiel grew up with. Like sucking on a bay leaf after spooning countless bites of spiced gumbo. Castiel watches them, listening.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Winchester,” Uriel sighs, kneading the space between his brows, “but like I have told you – _repeatedly_ , might I add – there was no further evidence that his death wasn’t anything but self-defense!”

Mr. Winchester’s shoulders expand in icy stiffness, Castiel noting how his arms shake. He squeezes a tiny notebook, waving it. “But what about –“

“Mr. Winchester,” Uriel says again, voice sharper than a switchblade, “even though you are a visitor to our great city, we have no trouble arresting tourists. Especially when they interfere with police business.” Castiel rolls his eyes at the obvious threat, with how Uriel tugs on the pair of cuffs hanging from his waist. “It’s in your best interest if you stop with these… _creative exaggerations_ , and hurry on out of here. Come back when Mardi Gras rolls around and your babbling can find some company in the other drunken ramblings that overrun the street.” That strikes a deadly nerve with Mr. Winchester, form tensing with the snide remark.

Uriel spins on his heel, stomping down the hallway and disappearing around the bend. Mr. Winchester, fuming, stands frozen like a statue done up in a public square. Tall, imposing, and beautifully constructed. Then, with a shout, he breaks from his base and lashes out at the closest target.

The water cooler buckles and retaliates with a baritone gurgle trumpeting a water spill that splashes from its mouth all over the other man’s shoes.

He jumps backwards, cursing. At this new angle, Mr. Winchester shows off his profile. Castiel gasps as seeing it drags a shallow memory up from the depths.

A few days ago, one of Castiel’s superiors tasked him with another duty better fit for a rookie: collecting evidence from the morgue and dropping it off in the designated lockers. They dropped an empty box on his desk and didn’t wait for his answer. It’s not like he could say anything other than no. Castiel set aside his ruined lunch, cursing under breath.

Castiel figured, on the way down, he could finish his assignment quickly. There weren’t many distractions in a morgue, although the company treated him infinitely better. If he kept focused on the list provided on what evidence was needed, Castiel may resume his lunch before the hour ended. Then he can finish eating and read some of the novel he brought with him.

When he swung the morgue doors open, two pairs of eyes greeted him. Terrifying since that rarely happens. It was Uriel and Mr. Winchester, albeit on friendlier terms back then. Castiel ignored his co-worker, instead gazing at the handsome newcomer. Dressed in a warm, plaid shirt, he clocked him as a civilian. Either a witness or a relation, given how he wrings a tissue to the point of tearing and has bright, red bags underlying his green eyes.

Uriel scoffed, drawing Castiel’s focus away from the other man. “What are you doing here, Mickey?”

“I was sent here,” Castiel explained, holding up the box, “collecting evidence.”

“Make it snappy, then.” Uriel offered a sympathetic shrug to Mr. Winchester, a curious observer. Hands steady on the wrinkled tissue. “Sorry about that, Mickey likes sticking his nose in where it don’t belong. Now… are you ready?”

As if remembering why he was brought into the morgue, Mr. Winchester audibly swallowed. Finally ripped the tissue, nodding. “Yeah, I… pull ‘im out.”

Castiel found the table with the forgotten evidence, choosing an advantageous position while placing them inside the box. Where he stood, Castiel saw the body when Uriel rolled the slab open and how Mr. Winchester reacted.

He cursed, loudly, eyes closing as his gaze traveled up the white sheet towards his face. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, that’s him. That’s my dad.”

Mr. Winchester’s dad had pale feet with a blotted birthmark on the right heel, and a mop of dark hair. All he could note from his station, even when balancing on his toes.

“Thank you,” Uriel shuts the drawer with a crash, both Castiel and Mr. Winchester jumping at the noise. “When we found the body, his ID was on him – but protocol and everything… we need someone who knew the body to make the final call.” He places a hand on Mr. Winchester’s back and guides him out the door, “Follow me and we can give you what little there was.”

“Wait,” Mr. Winchester said, “that’s it? How did he die? What are –“

“We can discuss that, too. But not here, my lunch is getting cold.”

Castiel waited for the last twitch of the doors, adding an extra beat of quiet in case someone else intruded. When assured he was alone, Castiel abandoned his task and hurried towards Mr. Winchester’s father’s body. He opened the corresponding drawer and greeted the dead body with a frown.

John Winchester. Aged 52, with black hair and hazel eyes. Castiel drops the toe tag and instead inspects the corpse’s face. A few abrasions decorated the left side of his temple, and Cas recognizes the swelled skin of a black eye even without the distinctive coloring. He continues his inspection lower, placing two fingers on John’s jaw and nudging him a few inches. Leaning closer, he made note of the thick red line across his neck. Strangulation.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

He shot up, caught by the autopsy technician. Marv scowled at him, a few crumbs falling from his beard. “Sorry,” Castiel said, hands up and open, “I was –“

“You were snooping, that’s what you were.” He shoved a po’boy sandwich into his mouth and bit, chewing wildly. “Leaf tha’ man alone and git outta here.”

Castiel nodded, gently closing John’s slap. Tossing the remaining evidence in the box, he fled from Marv’s distrustful glare and slovenly eating.

Freed from the haze of his memory, Castiel blinks and sees an irate Mr. Winchester staring directly at him. Castiel’s eyes widen, flipping around in a delayed attempt. Mr. Winchester clears his throat, “I know you’re there…”

Sighing, Castiel steps out of his hiding space. “Hello.”

Mr. Winchester crosses his arms, raking a heavy stare down his body. “What?” he asks, “Is it a crime to stand in a hallway, too?”

“No, I… uh,” Castiel points past him, smiling, “I was on my way to the supply closet for a new pen when you and… well –“

“Wait a minute,” Mr. Winchester interrupts, snapping, “I recognize you… from the morgue.” Surprising, seeing how traumatic it must have been for the other man. Castiel interviewed many witnesses who could barely recall the simplest things after the shock of seeing a dead body. Knowing that body was his father, Castiel assumed he were as memorable as a fly on the wall. “Mickey, right?”

“No, not Mickey.”

“But that’s what the other detective called you. Detective Burkhardt.”

“Mickey is a nickname,” he tells Mr. Winchester, “my real name is Castiel.”

Mr. Winchester rolls the name on his tongue, mouthing each syllable first. “Castiel,” he says, wincing, “How the hell do you get Mickey from Castiel?”

“It’s a… long story,” Castiel steps closer, reaching out to him. Stopping an inch from his shoulder, hovering there. His hand falls at his side once more. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking peachy,” he growls, brushing Castiel’s hand away. “Why shouldn’t I? Knowing my father’s murder is in the hands of some very capable asswipes, at least when it comes to _pissing me off_!” Mr. Winchester shouts again, kicking the air.

Castiel nods understandingly but doesn’t voice his agreement. Instead he rattles off the standard response for workplace complaints. “The officers here in the 5th District have the utmost respect for each case that passes through their hands, but unfortunately we also are the precinct with one of the highest crime rates. We have multiple cases under our supervision and we try and divide our time between them equally, so if it looks like we aren’t doing everything in our power to solve your case –“

“Oh, can the script, Cas.” Mr. Winchester sighs, “I know you’re lying.” Castiel splutters, from both the brusqueness and familiarity of his tone. “Burkhardt considers this open and shut. Homeless addict mugging gone wrong…”

He frowns; head tilting, weighed by his thoughts. “What?” he mutters, “Mugging… but his wounds – that doesn’t align with…”

Mr. Winchester raises a wry brow, staring at him. “How do you know about his wounds?”

Castiel bites his lip, blushing. “Sorry… I –“

“His wounds,” he snaps, aggravation increasing by the second. The fury of his storm directed at him. “You see ‘em? What about his wounds?” Castiel keeps his tongue pressed against his cheek, unwilling. Mr. Winchester rolls his eyes, stabbing his chest with a calloused finger. “You got a different opinion than your friend? Then spill it.”

Egged on by the hard glare – and the drought of discussing casework with his peers – Castiel relents. “I examined him briefly, very briefly and… well, what I saw, around the neck,” he draws an imaginary line around his own neck, “if the assailant was a victim of mugging, that doesn’t excuse what he did. The blows done should have been effective in disabling your father’s attacks, but they went the extra measure and… at least a manslaughter charge should have been investigated.” Castiel chuckles, fiddling with his glasses. “But I also haven’t seen all the evidence, nor the files, I…“

“Woah,” Mr. Winchester says, gaping, “That was… are you a detective?”

“Well, I mean –“

“Can you take over my father’s case?”

Castiel freezes, dread seeping into his stomach. “No, that’s – that’s Burkhardt’s case. I can’t… and they won’t…”

“Won’t what? Give you the case? I thought you said you and your buddies are drowning in ‘em,” His expression flattens, gaze curiously raking over him. “You got your own pile of work you’re concerned with? That’s why they got you on clean up duty?”

He squares his shoulders, fists tightening at his sides. “No, I can’t help you because I don’t have my detective’s license. Not anymore. I shouldn’t have even looked at your father’s body in the first place!” Castiel’s admission deflates any fight left in him, body relaxing with his next blink. “I’m sorry if I got your hopes up, but personality aside Burkhardt has moderate success on his assignments. He will get to the bottom of this mystery in due time.”

“Buddy, I ain’t got time.”

“…Excuse me?”

Mr. Winchester scans the surrounding area before stepping closer into Castiel’s personal space. Brings with him the scent of motor oil and cloves which, normally, doesn’t affect him. But Castiel feels his head spin from a single whiff. “Look, I don’t want to be here either okay? I’d rather be back in my shitty garage but I can’t because someone is trying to kill _me_ , too.”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. “What? What are you –“

“No. No you are not stopping me, too,” he huffs, “I tried telling Burkhardt and he railroaded the fuck out of me. Couldn’t even get to the part where someone _blew up_ the building my father was fucking squatting in!”

“Wait, _what_ blew up?”

He rolls his eyes, carelessly waving the book. “Abandoned building by the docks. Someone lit a fire next to a gas mane or something – I wasn’t really looking when I was _running for my life_.” Castiel vaguely remembers seeing the news about that, recollection blurring because Mr. Winchester continues listing his near-death experiences. “Exploding buildings, cut break lines – hell, I got pushed in front of a bus and would have bit it if I didn’t roll with the shove! I might be thickheaded, but I think I know when someone is trying to kill me.”

Mr. Winchester made an excellent argument. If there were multiple scenarios where his life was in danger, Castiel would believe someone had it out for him. Although he hits one snag that keeps him from fully believing the other man. “Why though?”

“Huh? Why… why what? Why does someone want to kill me?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “You don’t live here… and I doubt anyone can get into enough trouble this quickly that it’d warrant their death. So… what reason would anyone have to kill you?”

He splutters, “Seriously? Because of my dad! Because of – because of this!” Mr. Winchester opens the book he carried, flipping through the pages. “Because of this stupid, illegible book my piece of shit dad sent me! It has to be – everything only started going to shit once this showed up on my doorstep.”

Castiel’s eyes do their best at following along, catching bits and pieces of scribbled rambling and faded pictures. Soon enough he grows weary, snatching the book out of Mr. Winchester’s hands despite his protests. “Mr. Winchester –“

“God, could everyone stop calling me… it’s Dean.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel stresses, tapping his chest with the book, “I’m sure you are perfectly safe. You just lost your father, you’re in a city you’re not familiar with… have you been getting any sleep?”

Dean averts his gaze, scratching his neck. “Not recently, no… but –“

“No buts,” Castiel tells him, “There’s a rational explanation for everything. There has to be. We won’t find it, though, if you annoy the people working on your father’s case.” A dubious pout forms on the other man’s lips after that. Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, migraine building under his skin. “Although, if it will make you feel any better… I’ll try and talk to Uriel about your father’s murder.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s about as much influence as I have around here,” he grimaces, arms flailing wildly. “Even then I doubt my opinion matters much, anyway…”

Dean drags a hand down his face, head shaking. “Thanks, then,” he mutters, pushing past Castiel, “helpful like every other cop I’ve ever talked to.” He leaves, boots stomping around the corner past Nick’s portrait.

A mix of shame and guilt coil within Castiel’s gut, conscious berating him for fumbling the conversation. You’re better than that, Castiel. Something isn’t sitting right and you know it. This is why you don’t have any friends, and forget about a date… His hands squeeze tight, bending the book.

Castiel frowns, “What the -?” He traces a crack on the worn leather cover. Follows it from the front, onto its spine, and where it branches into another line on the back. Dean’s, or rather, John’s book. A journal if Castiel isn’t mistaken. The kind where you can insert your own pages, held together by a series of intricate string knots.

John abused this feature. Liberally stuffed the journal with random passages torn from books, copies of receipts and actual blank pages he scribbled on. With random photographs like the one of a blonde woman and her two sons. The youngest nestled by her breast while the eldest, with straw-colored floppy hair and green eyes that sparkle even after years of light damage. Castiel traces Dean’s face in the book, no doubt on who that is.

He glances at the supply closet, then at the stain on his shirt. Castiel takes one step, and with his next hurries back the way he came.

There’s not much he grabs from his desk. Leaves his bag and work, only taking the two layers he wore in. Slips the suit jacket on while leaving the office and the trench coat when entering the precinct’s lobby. Scanning the area, he finds no sign of Dean. He approaches the front desk.

Duma and Muriel casually chat despite his beleaguered appearance. “Excuse me?” he asks, interrupting. Duma stops midsentence, raising a brow. Her lips purse in annoyance. “Did you see a man walk through here?”

She looks at Muriel, the other woman barely controlling her giggling. “Yeah,” she says, “tons of men. We’re pretty busy here… not that you’d know that –“

Castiel’s growling overtakes her comment. “A man, a-a tall man,” he hisses, “Blondish, freckles, real Boy Next Door type grown up. You would have _definitely_ noticed if he passed by.” Rarely does he lose hold of his anger, but his patience was tested too much today. And Duma broke its final restraint.

Duma stares with wide eyes, as does Muriel. “He left about a few minutes ago,” she tells him.

“Thank you.”

He storms out the door, ignoring the comments he knows they’re saying. Castiel can imagine the weeks of torment his one little tantrum will cause, all because of one man. At least it will add variety.

Breaking into a crowded sidewalk, Castiel is sieged upon by pedestrians bustling about. Walking left and right; shoving him around, without care; wrapped up in their own little lives. Castiel searches for Dean here but cannot see his distinguishable form. Swimming through the crowd, Castiel hopes he might catch a glimpse.

When sight proves unhelpful Castiel hears an odd sound past the din of the city. He stops, turning towards traffic while blocking the sidewalk. Angry onlookers spit their disdain for his actions but Castiel cannot hear them. Too busy listening, identifying the sounds. The sounds of a struggle coming from the alleyway.

“…get offa…”

Castiel dashes after the voice. Jumps a knocked over garbage can and splashes a puddle of rainwater in his haste. He skids to a stop, happening on the fight. The first few seconds spent surveying the battlefield.

Three men, ganging up on a fourth in the center. Two at the sides wrestle with the man’s arms, while the last one’s bulky frame blocks Castiel from identifying the victim. A possible mugging, or maybe a hate crime – tens of reasons flitter through his mind. Alongside them various responses he must make.

Leaving them be is a non-question. Castiel would not run at the sight of danger. But without a gun, Castiel knows little what he can do. If he tries and bluff a weapon, he might buy time for the other man’s escape. Or he can enact a strategic retreat, a block from the police station meant he can return with reinforcements before anything dangerous happens.

But then he sees the bulkiest attacker pull rope from his back pocket. Wraps it around his knuckles until taut, holding it overhead. John Winchester’s neck flashes into view, of the red burns from strangulation. That image disappears, completely, when the victim’s arm wretches free from the left and knocks the man with rope back a few inches.

Dean, with a crazed look in his eye, vainly peels at the duct tape slapped across his mouth. The crowd swallows him up again, Castiel losing track of Dean and the rope.

He acts. Grabs a nearby trash can and launches it at the largest of the men. That attacker stumbles away from Dean, turning in time for Castiel’s punch. Castiel curses from the pain while the other slams against the wall and slides. Dean, unburdened by the apparent leader, knees one of his captors in the groin and then flips the last onto the dirty alley floor.

“Stand down,” Castiel orders, showing his badge, “I am an officer of the law and I repeat, stand down!”

They flee, defying him. Scurry like cockroaches into the safety of nearby shadows. Castiel doesn’t chase, instead checking on Dean. Bruised at the temple, and with a split lip worsened by peeling tape off it, the extent of his damage ends there. Castiel stepped in before the worst.

“Wow,” Dean coughs, rubbing his throat, “you got a mean right hook there, Cas.”

Castiel shrugs, fingers flexing. “I box, when I have the chance. Did it all throughout high school.”

“No foolin’? I wrestled. Although the only thing I learned _there_ was how much I liked –“

“Why were those men after you Dean?” Dean pauses, levelling Castiel with a flat stare. Castiel blanches, “Right, right… you already…” Reminded, he holds the book out for him. “You left this with me.”

“I figured,” Dean says, “When they jumped me, first thing they did was search for it. Too angry to realize I didn’t have it either, and the last place I had it was…” He makes no attempt in taking it back.

Something stirs nearby, startling both men. Castiel, with his free hand, snatches Dean’s wrist while following the noise.

A black cat emerges, knocking over another empty bottle. It rolls and rolls along the cobblestone and towards them. Castiel relaxes, looking over at the other man and seeing his shoulders lower as well. “They’re gone,” he says.

“Yeah, but I don’t think we should wait around for them to come back either.”

Castiel nods, tugging Dean forward. “There’s a little café I know where we can –“

His wrist slips from Castiel’s grasp, hand squeezing only the air. Castiel frowns, watching Dean pocket his hands with a blush. “Don’t want people getting any ideas…”

Heat pooling under Castiel’s skin, he averts his gaze from the magnetic draw of Dean’s. “Right, yes… my apologies. Let’s – um, it’s not that far from here. We’ll talk there.”

“…Okay.”

Side by side they exit the alleyway, rejoining the crowd with no fanfare. No one finds Dean’s dishevelment or Castiel’s stiff gait strange, a mixed blessing. Which means their almost-hand holding could have been glossed over, too. And there’s hope no one thinks too much about how often their shoulders brush. Castiel can explain why he keeps looking at Dean, if anyone were to stop him and ask. It’s not because the setting sun highlights angles of his jaw like he’s never seen before. Instead Castiel feels the familiar needle prick of being stared at; but every time he checks Dean’s head is aggressively straight and gaze locked only on what’s ahead. Always whenever Castiel chances a peek.

They reach the café, Dean holding the door for Castiel after he points it out. “Thank you.”

“Consider us square.”

“Really?” he asks, “I didn’t realize door opening and saving lives held the same weight.”

“Both are chivalrous…” Dean’s dimples appear with a flick of Castiel’s eyebrow. “You were doing your job…” Castiel stands in the entryway, waiting. “Fine! I’ll buy us some grub or whatever…”

“Okay.”

He waves at the closest server, walking up to her with Dean stepping at his heels. “Hi Alicia, got any room for me and a… a, uh – friend?”

She glances between him and Dean, curiously. Carefully, Castiel shakes his head. Dean too busy squinting behind her he didn’t notice. “Hi Castiel,” she says, “sure, you know your usual table comes with two chairs. You might’ve forgotten, though, seeing how you use it as your personal footrest.”

“Yes, well I’m sure your mother will be happy someone will be sitting in it, then. We’ll seat ourselves?”

“Yeah, Max’ll be over to take your orders in a sec.”

“Perfect,” Castiel says, he and Dean sitting far removed from the denser-than-average crowd. His usual table seated between an overwatered palm frond and the trash box, reserved without effort since no one would choose it unless every other option were exhausted. He sits with his back to the trash, while Dean whacks away the one large leaf that overextended into his space.

“Perfect?” Dean parrots, “This is your usual table?”

“It’s perfect to me.”

Dean angles himself so he faces the dining area, studying it. “You come here often?”

Castiel snorts, “I think we’re too familiar with each other for _that_ line.”

“I mean,” he stumbles over a leaded tongue, “the girl, what you said – it seems like they know you more than they would a regular customer.”

Chuckling, Castiel traces the cauldron logo on the provided laminated menus. “Yeah, I’d say I’m more than a regular customer.”

Castiel was sitting in the same exact spot, three years ago, when a man tried robbing the Witch’s Brew. With shaking hands he kept the weapon trained on Tasha emptying the register while her children stayed behind the kitchen window with Benny. Not alerting the robber, Castiel slowly crept up to him with the other captive eaters his audience. All shaking their heads, telling him that this wasn’t the time for heroes. Even Tasha stilled with her hand in the drawer, staring at him. He motioned for her cooperation, and she continued. Until Castiel struck, twisting the man’s wrist and kicking the gun far when it fell.

“Sir,” he said, “do you really want to rob this nice woman? Think very carefully before you answer.”

Andy only wanted enough money that he could buy a bus ticket home, and after begging on the New Orleans streets he couldn’t scrape together the fee. So with the little he had, Andy invested in a get-rich quick scheme. Castiel paid for his ticket, sending him off while keeping the gun for himself.

“You could’ve brought him in,” Tasha mentioned, she and him turning chairs in the empty restaurant. He stayed behind, making sure her family were okay. Her kids waiting at the counter, the scene of the crime, laughing at their own jokes. She folds her arms, waiting for his answer, “I know you’re a cop… why didn’t you arrest him?”

Castiel shrugged. “He only wanted to go home. Besides, waving an unloaded weapon isn’t a criminal offense in Louisiana. Unfortunately…”

“You knew it was empty?”

“He squeezed that trigger near three times,” he told her, “Boy was jumpy. Scared. People who are afraid will go to great lengths, and often hurt others in the process. Tackling him to the ground wouldn’t solve anything and putting handcuffs on him wouldn’t solve anything.”

Tasha sighed, leaning on a nearby table. “If that’s so, then why do we need police officers.”

Pausing, Castiel frowned in thought. “When I find an answer,” he said, “I’ll let you know.”

He hasn’t found an answer, nor does he think he ever will. But that won’t keep him away, especially since Tasha promised him free meals whenever he wanted. Dean doesn’t have to know, though.

Max joins them, pad in hand. “Hey Castiel, Castiel’s… _friend_.” He obviously talked with Alicia before coming over. “I’m Max, what are you in the mood for?”

“We’ll take gumbo,” Castiel orders for them, taking Dean’s menu and dropping it in the appropriate caddy on the table. “Extra spicy, I’ll know if Benny holds out on me… a glass of whatever’s on tap and – Dean? What would you like to drink?”

Dean’s dimples return, “I thought this was a café? What’re they doing selling drinks?”

“You can get beer anywhere in New Orleans,” Max laughs, “if we were dry we’d barely see business come Mardi Gras.”

Instead of laughing Dean tipped his head. Studied a patch on his knee with great intensity, hand shoved into his jacket pocket. Wriggling, like he flipped something.

Castiel guesses what it is. “Actually, I think I’ll have water instead,” he tells Max, shrugging. “My throat’s parched like the day is long. So, two waters – for each of us – that would be fine.”

Max nods, promising their meals in a few minutes.

Dean waits until he’s far enough away, whispering, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You were uncomfortable with me ordering beer,” Castiel says, “I really didn’t mind –“

“Look, just because I have a few hang-ups about the stuff don’t mean I force you or anyone to walk on eggshells, got it?” He shifts in his seat, leaning heavily on the table. Forcing his adult body weight on the small thing.

Castiel hums in agreement, smirking. “Of course. But maybe I didn’t change my order because of you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I mean – if a consequence of me not drinking is your comfort, so be it. Have you considered, though, that I changed my drink order because if I were to help you, I’d want a clear head?” Dean’s pout signals that Castiel won this battle. He sinks into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “How long have you been sober, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Dean sighs, opens his palm and shows him the golden medallion. A triangle engraved in the middle capturing two ‘I’s. “Two years, and then some. Hoping I can make it to three… or at least until tomorrow.”

His grim joke reminds Castiel why they were there in the first place. He glances from the coin to John’s book, wedged under Dean’s elbow.

“Your father,” Castiel starts, “did he say anything to you about what was in the book, or why people wanted to kill him for it – kill _you_ for it?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you _anything_ -?”

“He told me jack shit,” Dean growls, “Barely said _anything_ to me in over a decade.”

Castiel worries at his lip, migraine from earlier returning. He rubs his temple, “If you hadn’t spoken to him in over a decade, why were _you_ the one police called to ID his body?”

Dean flashes a wicked grin, pocketing the medallion. “Beats me. I mean my old man was a prickly bastard already, and the drugs only made his winning personality worse. I’m not _surprised_ there wasn’t anyone else. But they could’ve called my ma or Sam…” His mouth flips into a frown; Dean gnawing on his bottom lip. “Except Sam’s too busy with his internship, and ma swore she never wanted to see the bastard again… I guess it would’ve been me, huh.” A fog settles over his eyes, Dean leaving the conversation for some other place.

“Well,” Castiel presses, clearing his throat. Waits for the clouded gaze to lift. “Maybe your father had your address or phone number somehow. I mean he must have, if he sent you the book.” He looks at it again. “May I see it?”

“You already have.” Dean hands it over, letting Castiel flip through it while he continues. “I guess you’re right. Or they probably had his prints and other stuff on record, right? I watch those cop shows…”

“Only if you’ve committed a crime,” Castiel tells him, reviewing a hastily scrawled receipt detailing a heroin deal. “Which, I’m guessing, your father has?”

“He was a bad boy all right,” Dean says with melancholy pride. “Bastard never knew when to quit. Even when he met my ma and had Sammy and I…” He pauses, hissing out a low whistle. “And then after the war, he… I’m sorry.” Castiel looks up from the book, sees Dean fumbling with an inner pocket. “I think all of today is catching up with me,” his hands are shaking, “I might go outside, can I…?”

Castiel produces a silver lighter from his trench coat pocket, offering it. “You can smoke here,” he lets Dean in on the secret, eyes twinkling, “if people couldn’t smoke inside, how would they –“

“They make any money during Mardi Gras.” Dean huffs a tired laugh, accepting the lighter. Quickly prepares his cigarette and sucks a lungful of smoke in. “I thought only tourists cared about the crappy festival.”

“We natives do, too,” Castiel says. “It’s a running joke that even the poorest of businesses can turn a profit during Mardi Gras. While outsiders come in and tear through worse than a storm in hurricane season, at least they aid in the recovery by paying.”

“Do you like Mardi Gras, Cas?”

“What?”

Dean brushes a bit of ash into the nearby plant, considerably calmer than earlier. “What’s your opinion on the whole thing?”

Castiel hems his answer, frowning. “It is quite fun,” he admits, “the music, the lights, all the bright colors, but… I will admit that the people can get very rowdy.”

“Being an officer I’m sure you see a lot of that,” Dean says, “A lot of rowdiness. Probably like Christmas for you and your buddies.”

Castiel’s stomach turns over, and he nearly lets his queasiness show. He focuses on the book again, flipping a page. “You said your father was in a war,” he continues, “the Vietnam War?”

“Any other wars we have recently?”

“So, is this him?” Castiel shows a faded photograph of John Winchester, years younger. A man without the world on his shoulders or stitches running up his sternum. Who looked considerably brighter, and tanner; nothing like the thing in the morgue. He wears a sleeveless military green button-down, flexing while holding his gun. Helmet on but tipped back enough the camera captures his boyish grin.

“Yeah, that was… that was him,” Dean says, “I remember when he sent that to us. Got some guy in his platoon to take the picture… there’re a whole bunch of them inside. Weirdly placed, too. Everything in there is… it doesn’t make sense. I mean, on one page he’s rambling about how he’s being watched – that _birds_ are just spies for the bourgeoisie. And then the next it’s just a bunch of numbers. Not to mention how much of a hoarder he was – I think all that he had went into this book.”

“Hold on,” Castiel says, “What did you just say?”

“C’mon, you can’t actually believe that bird conspiracy shit. Do you?”

“No, I…” He sees Max coming with their gumbo and closes the book, hiding it under his arms. “Did Benny make it spicy?”

Max hands them their bowls with a grand flourish. “If it were any spicier the devil would have had to come in it himself.”

Dean hides his snort behind a cough, Castiel rolling his eyes. “That’s exactly what I meant when I said spicy, though,” he jokes, “if I can’t taste demon seed then what’s the point?”

“You’ll have to find some way to move past this, I guess.” He deposits their drinks, glancing between the two. “Is that all?”

“Thank you, Max.” Castiel dips his spoon into the gumbo and leaves it there, dropping it for the book when their waiter leaves. “I was talking about the numbers, Dean,” he explains, “what were those numbers of?”

“Purchases?” he guesses, waving his cigarette. “He had, like, ten fake credit cards in his wallet when they arrested him, I’m sure he was keeping track of what he bought so he didn’t go over his limit. And sometimes there were addresses – that’s how I found out where he was staying while in New Orleans. But others… made no sense.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know, okay! It’s not like my dad was writing shit in a secret code.” Dean’s breath hitches, jumping ahead. His stare flattens, cigarette sagging between his fingers. “You think my dad was writing shit in a secret code, don’t you?”

Castiel shrugs, “It’s the only explanation.”

“He was crazy from years of drug abuse, _that’s_ the explanation.”

“Fine, Dean. There are no secret codes, meaning this whole notebook is worthless and there’s no reason for those men to have jumped you back in that alleyway.”

Dean’s retort is shoveling a spoonful of Benny’s gumbo into his mouth. Castiel watches his cheeks immediately flush, eyes watering. A cough tries breaking past the iron lock he has on his lips. He looks away and huffs on his cigarette, subtly reaching for his water.

Castiel lets Dean sulk. Flips through the journal with intent, searching for a page like Dean mentioned. He finds one, a series he recognizes as routing numbers. Each matched with a hefty sum, marked down alongside a date when they were deposited and when he withdrew. A few pages past that he finds another list, this one more confusing. Rows of codes Castiel has never seen before, either while working or relaxing.

Dean’s spoon clinks along the bowl’s edges. “If I’d known we’d be dealing with secret codes I’d’ve searched my cereal this morning for a decoder ring.”

Castiel fixes his glasses, peering closer. “Decoder rings like those are actually poor substitutes for real decoder rings that were used in secret operations. Where the message hidden inside the code meant life or death… they needed a secure level of complexity.”

“Insane fighting skills, knowing about secret codes…”

“I’ve read a few books, here and there, on cryptography.”

“Are you really a cop?” Dean asks, stirring the gumbo, “Or are you some kind of undercover agent _posing_ as a desk jockey.”

Castiel looks up from the book, static overtaking his mind. He nearly ripped the page because of Dean’s probing question, saving it by instead stomping on his own foot. Smothers the scream under a shiny grimace. “I’m not James Bond, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m just a man trying to do some good. It’s… it’s been a while since I’ve gotten the chance to do that.” Castiel gives up on the second page, moving on. “I know Uriel gave you a few things of your father’s… was one of them any sort of codex?”

Dean slurps at his gumbo before answering. “No, it was all junk. Wadded up tissues, loose cigarettes, this weird piece of clay that he was probably using to smoke shit out of…”

“Hmmm…”

“What?”

“What?”

He whacks Castiel over the head with his spoon, drawing his gaze again. “You said ‘hmmm’,” Dean tells him, “What did that mean?”

“Oh, right…” Castiel studies the latest page with keen interest, wheels grinding against each other. “This page, some of the numbers on here, they look familiar.” He shows Dean, now, tapping on the one that’s circled. “See?”

“I see a whole bunch of numbers. Large numbers,” Dean winces, “But no plus signs or minus signs or – what exactly am I looking at, Cas?”

“The comma.” Castiel shuts the book, standing. “The comma, between the two sets of numbers. They’re coordinates!”

“Coordinates, like… on a map?” Dean asks, “He was going somewhere?”

“Somewhere close I’ll bet, given how it was circled.” And the only set not crossed off with a bright red ‘x’. “Hurry, we best be going.”

“Going where?”

“The library closes in a little bit, and if we want to use their resources we’ll need to hurry.” Castiel makes it halfway through the café without realizing Dean didn’t follow. He turns, spotting Dean staring conflictedly at the counter. Trudging back over, “It’s okay, you don’t have to pay. They comp my meals.”

“It’s not that – but what a nice thing to know…” Dean mutters, pinning Castiel with a harried stare. “I,” he sighs now, sagging. Crushes his cigarette in the nearby potted plant and leaves the stub. “We can’t order dessert?”

Castiel’s soul somersaults, jumping from his body and landing gracelessly. Tasha keeps her counter stocked with an array of pies, all homemade, that spin inside a mounted carousel. On the exact spot Dean sized up when they entered, and as they were about to leave.

“Next time,” he promises, dragging Dean off, “you can have as many pies as you want. My treat.”

An easy promise, given how Castiel has no clue whether he _nor_ Dean will make it back for a next time.


	2. Pay Your Toll to the Ferryman

_August 16 th, 1985_

It’s been a while since he visited work, on paid leave for the duration of an internal review. Castiel arrived without any fanfare, slipping in after the lunch hour. A few minutes early than when his Superintendent asked. He had plans for those extra few minutes. Plans that quickly evaporated by the odd atmosphere his appearance caused.

No one spoke to him. Duma and Muriel were oddly focused on their work, and none of the officers on duty returned his friendly smiles. Even Uriel seemed distant in his own way. Mouth pressed thin, glaring and leaving for parts unknown. His partner would not elaborate on the crucial issue that needed his attention. The rudeness, though, slipped his mind entirely as Castiel came upon his desk.

Wood polished and bare like Castiel never lay claim at all. None of his files, books, or belongings were there. Family photos and friendly knick-knacks disappeared into nothingness. A lone empty space in a sea of activity, carefully avoided by those surrounding it.

He hurried towards his meeting.

Castiel knocked outside his Superintendent’s door, waiting for her affirming command before entering. He did, the sense of dread bubbling up in his heart sinking down into his stomach. Naomi briefly glanced up from her paperwork and motioned across the desk. “Have a seat, Castiel.” She hummed softly under breath, slashing through a paragraph with a bright red mark.

He sat; knees glued together in nervousness. “Good morning, Naomi,” Castiel hazarded a smile. The corners of his lips drooped when the olive branch he offered breaks in twain, Naomi striking it over her knee. She didn’t return his greeting, instead closed one manila folder and opened another, larger one. “Hey, I was wondering… d’you know why my desk –“

“Castiel,” she began, “care to tell me what these are?”

All Castiel saw were blocks of print too tiny for reading from far away, even with his glasses. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure –“

“These are all the complaints you’ve filed since joining the police.” Naomi flipped through a few pages, “All the times you _thought_ you knew how to better police than your fellow officers. From simple beat rookies to men and women with more years on the force you probably couldn’t comprehend.”

Castiel frowned, squeezing his thighs. “If this is why I was called in,” he said, “I can assure you that each time I went through filing I made sure I spoke with officer in question, like I did with this last one. Only using the complaint system as a last resort because they wouldn’t listen –“

“And why should they, Castiel,” she interrupted, again, “you weren’t brought on because we _needed_ a change in how our operation is run. The motto of the police is ‘protect and serve’, not ‘protect and _philosophize_ ’.” Her comment rubbed against his skin like sandpaper, mouth thinning from the irritation. “But that is not the purpose of today’s meeting.”

“I would hope not.”

“They are a symptom of a much larger problem,” Naomi told him, “One that we took into account during our investigation, and from our findings it is clear that you, Castiel, have been found guilty of misconduct.”

His breath catches between beats of his heart, wrists bound by invisible chains of fear. Castiel’s brows raise in surprise, and then slam into a furious bend. “Misconduct?” he snarled, “Me? How have I been found guilty of – who even… what?”

Naomi slipped into a false guise of professional cheeriness, robotically smoothing out the wrinkles on the pages in front of her. “Overall, Novak, we have found your conduct interfering with many of the grandfathered procedures we here in the Louisiana Police Department have sworn to uphold. And the boldness that came with your defiance didn’t shrink like we hoped it would over the years, in fact doubling after your promotion.” She held up the folder from earlier, “Your ability to work in a team-oriented environment is… not up to the standards we expect of our officers, and especially our detectives. My compiled notes _will_ be added to your file.”

Castiel stood, chair scraping on the wooden floor in his anger. “Me? Guilty of misconduct? When all I did – all I’ve _been_ doing – is my _job_?”

“We all are doing our jobs, Novak,” she chuckled, “far better than you, might I add.”

“So, Officer Johnston?” he asked, “what he did was ‘part of the job’?” The air quotes felt a bit unnecessary, however it forced Naomi to drop the façade of her expression. Revealed the ugly contempt in her cool gaze.

“Johnston did what was necessary to keep the peace,” she explained, “your inability to communicate with and listen to officers on and off the field has proven a danger for yourself and others.” Naomi shuffled her papers together, organizing the neatly stack of pages. Refit the mask onto her face. “We wear a badge just like you, Castiel. Why are you so hellbent on dragging others down?”

“That’s not at all what I’m trying to do!” he said, “I want us to all be better – more effective in how we operate. But there are serious problems in some of the ways we dispense justice.”

“And that’s why you spoke with a third party?”

Castiel froze, blood draining from his face. “What?”

Naomi, her hands folded in resemblance of prayer, smirked. “You didn’t think we wouldn’t be following you,” she said, “We had to, and for good reason. How long have you been speaking with Mrs. Tran, Castiel?”

“I only met her the one time.” Which, as a defense, would not save him. One was all it took. Castiel knew he should have hung up on her the second she revealed herself. Except curiosity kept him on the line. He wanted answers, unaware of the heavy price he might pay.

“In the end I believe you will have your wish,” Naomi said, “Officer Johnston has been terminated with pay pending legal investigation into his actions by the Tran family. It has been requested you appear as a key witness, a fine opportunity to finally exercise your fifth amendment rights.” Castiel’s fists shook at his sides, glasses fogging slightly from the steam coming off his face. “Although, you will have a lot of time to understand how that’s done seeing as you will no longer be serving as a detective in this precinct.”

“You’re firing me?”

“No, Castiel, we aren’t firing you. That would be breaking the law.” Naomi leaned back in her seat, meeting his fiery stare with an unflinching one of her own. “But given the findings from our investigation, having you on the field would interfere too much with everyone’s work. Instead you will be relegated to desk duty – taking statements, cleaning up reports, _handling complaints_ and anything else that we can think of to keep you busy. We’ve already saved you the effort of moving your stuff.”

Castiel bared his teeth. “This isn’t right… you’re still punishing me for speaking out.”

“No, we’re doing what we need to ensure law and order prevails.” Naomi stood, stiffly walking over towards the door. “And for that, we need a united front. A sense of community and brotherhood, Castiel. If people knew there were _cracks_ in our armor, they would not hold us to the level of respect we deserve, and crime would run rampant in the streets!” She opened her door, nodding at it. “If you continue your outburst, though, I _will_ be firing you _and_ have you arrested for unlawful occupation.”

He knew she would not hesitate with such an order, a fact that twists the knife in his back deeper. Castiel sagged, shuffling out of her office.

She smiled, patting him on the shoulder as he left. “You’ll start again on Monday with your new team, Castiel. I’ll hope you will have learned how to play with others by then!”

_Present Day_

Driving through the swamp at night unnerves Castiel. Even though he lived his entire life fenced in by the murky waters and strange fauna, shadows lived unchecked within the expansive canopy. Without the sun, you could barely see an inch in front of you. A local would know, journeying through the swamp, that caution was your best friend. Not Dean, whose tires squeal with each tire as he raced towards Honey Swamp. Castiel breathes a sigh of relief once they arrive where they needed, Dean killing the engine and the blender noises he calls music. “Next time I’m driving,” he gasps, “…and I’m picking the station.”

“Dude, no way,” Dean says, glaring, “First two rules of my car – driver always picks the music, and I’m always the driver.”

“If those are the _first_ two, I’d hate to hear the rest of your rules.”

“Piss me off and I’ll describe all sixty-three rules. _In detail_.” He exits, leaving Castiel in his shock.

“Sixty-three?” Castiel whispers, disgust crawling over his features, “what the hell is his problem?” Shaking his head, Castiel follows after Dean before he gets himself into any more trouble.

Which, judging by his conversation with the man at the rental station, is any second.

“Listen, buddy,” Dean slams his hands on the counter, snarling, “I’m willing to pay double – hell, _triple_ the amount you normally ask for. Why are you being such a tight ass?”

The man on the other side of the counter, Ash as his nametag reads, remains unmoved by Dean’s display. “I’ve got my orders, dude,” he tells Dean, “boss lady says I ain’t supposed to let anyone take these boats out past the recommended touring hours. We ain’t like those bigger companies that can hire one of those fancy lawyer types to defend us if you hurt yourself and decide to sue!”

“What if I promise –“

“Sure, I’ve heard that before.” Ash brushes a few hairs of his mullet from his shoulder, arching a stiff brow. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to finish a few more chores ‘fore I can go on home.”

He disappears further inside the shack, ignoring Dean’s calls and curses. Dean turns to Castiel, fuming, “Can you believe that hick?” he asks, “$300 bucks I’m willing to drop and he’s not even considering taking the offer. No wonder this whole operation’s so small!” He shouts that last part, waiting for any response. When nothing disrupts the buzz of dragonfly wings and Dean’s heavy breathing, it sends him into a fiercer spiral. “Seriously!”

Sighing, Castiel lays a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Allow me.” He ushers Dean aside and then, when out of sight, Cas calls for Ash.

Stepping out from the back room, he looks at Castiel with tired annoyance. “Look, sirs,” he says, “We are _closed_. In no way can we provide a boat for –“

“But I insist that you do,” Castiel interrupts, flashing his badge at him, “y’see we’re conducting an investigation, and we need to get on those waters post haste.” Skewing his head, he squints at him, “The longer we go without a boat… the more likely the criminals we’re chasing will escape. And our bosses told us to come back with an arrest. I’d hate for it to be obstruction of justice and uncooperativeness.”

Ash readily aids them with their request, lip quivering in fear. All the while Castiel avoids meeting Dean’s gaze. A dark knot forms in Castiel’s stomach after his ploy but cannot fault the results at this time. Maybe later, once he and Dean figured out why John Winchester left coordinates for Honey Swamp in his journal, Castiel would allow the guilt to fester. Until then he drops a hot iron on the wound for a quick patch-up.

They’re on the boat and zipping through the waters. Castiel sits on the end in control of the motor, more experience steering boats of the two. Nearer the front, Dean holds a flashlight above photocopied pages of a map they took from the library. Course plotted in bright, red ink of the exact spot mentioned in the journal. He turns when Dean tells him, rounding overly large trees and clumps of swamp grass. A stray cattail whacks Dean in the face and Castiel terribly hides his giggle while the other man fumes.

“Gee, thanks,” Dean huffs, snatching the offending weed in hand. He flings it into the water. “God only knows how many germs were just crawling on that thing…” Dean rubs at his lips with the back of his hand, beam of light darting around crazily.

Castiel sighs, slowing the motor, “It was just a cattail.”

“It’s gross is what it is, and it touched me.” He glances back at Castiel, brows bouncing in amusement, “If I have to go to the hospital after this, can you do what you did back there to get me the best care?”

Reminded of his actions, his good mood dissipates. Castiel squirms in his seat, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I… that would be an abuse of my powers –“

“And the stuff you said back there?”

“Was close to the truth,” he says, “this is an investigation, although unofficial. And who knows what is waiting for us at the end of this chase… it could have been time sensitive.” His attempts at rationalizing the scene fall short, and Castiel’s shoulders sag. “Listen… you weren’t – was it okay? What I did… _lying_ like that?”

“Hell Cas, we all lie every now and then. Some more than others…” His tone held a darkness much like the swamp, dark and vast. Secrets hidden in its depth that tempt and pique Castiel’s curiosity. In the next instant, though, he flashes a bright grin and melts his shadows away. “I mean, how else can you become President!”

Castiel rolls his eyes, closing the lid on this conversation. Stuffs it away with, “What do I do next?”

Dean studies the map, humming. “Well, if we go straight for a while, we should… _shit_.”

Their flashlight flickers before completely cutting out. Left in the darkness, Castiel kills the engine. Knowing the only way their situation could worsen is if he rams their boat into a tree while blind. “Dean?”

“Working on it!”

He hears Dean mutter and curse while fiddling with their flashlight, slamming the device against his palm and – when overcome in his frustration – on the side of the boat. They drift in darkness, Castiel’s nerves flaying the longer they are without the safety of light. At one point, between whacks, he hears a sound foreign to the swamp: bells faintly ringing in the distance. “Dean, stop –“

“I think I almost got it…”

“No, Dean –“

It turns on, Dean crowing in victory. Short-lived, however, as it flutters back into death. Dean swears at the object, standing and strangling it in a haze of fury that rocks their boat. Each stomp closer like a hammer on his heart.

Castiel, worried, rises alongside Dean. Meets him halfway on the boat and tries calming him. “Dean,” he says, grabbing his shoulders, “Dean, you need to sit down. It’s just a flashlight.”

“It’s pissing me off, is what it is,” he growls, “bet that asshole knew it was going to die and gave it to us out of spite. Fucker’ll be hearing about this when we get back after I shove this flashlight straight up his –“

_Slam!_

Castiel loses his footing, collapsing with a gasp. Something hard and long presses into his chest, and he belatedly remembers their flashlight being between him and Dean while they stood on the boat. When they crashed, Castiel must have fallen on it. It and Dean, the other man groaning underneath him. “Dean?” he asks, “Dean, are you okay?”

He groans but responds positively. “I’ll have a definite headache… and all the wind got knocked out of me, s’all.”

Suddenly, their flashlight wakes. Lighting a path forward, and highlighting the awkward position Castiel and Dean lie in. With help, Castiel can clearly see the freckles resting on the bridge of Dean’s nose. How his green eyes sparkle under the spotlight, and the wisps of bangs that stick to his forehead from the sweat. Gaze dipping downward, briefly, he notices the plushness of Dean’s lips and the way dimples form if he purses them in a certain fashion. Only when their eyes meet again, Dean clearly marking his own notes on Castiel’s face, does he remember.

Castiel’s hand pushes and Dean winces from the pain. Instead of the boat’s bottom, he pressed on the other man’s shoulder. His heart beats faster, temperature rising higher than normal for bayou humidity. “Dean,” he starts, “I –“

“Cas –“

Both cannot finish their thoughts, a third-party joining in. A dog barking from nearby that draws their attention. Dean frees their flashlight from between their chests, removing the last remaining barrier separating their bodies, and flashes it where they hear its calls.

Another boat comes into focus, with the source of the barking being a Rottweiler with its tongue lagging out its mouth. A hand scratches the dog’s head with great affection, halting any further noise. “Quiet, Rumsfeld,” the hand’s owner mutters, “nothing more than a couple getting handsy…” It’s an older gentleman, dressed seasonally comfortable in a pair of loose overalls, a trucker’s cap, and little else. An ensemble Cas would avoid in a place like this for fear of being a walking mosquito platter.

Dean protests, shuffling from underneath Castiel and throwing him off. “It-it’s not like that!” he defends, “we were – our flashlight went out – hit something and we fell! Isn’t that right, Cas?” Castiel, still crumpled on the floor, barely responds. “See?”

Their intruding stranger snorts with incredulity. “Sure,” he drawls, “Well, since your flashlight is up and working you two should use it and find yourselves somewhere safer to… _not_ canoodle. Okay?”

“Sorry, sir,” Castiel says, righting himself into his seat by the motor, “we didn’t mean to disturb you. We’re only following directions.”

“And they took you all the way out here?”

“Yep!” Dean says, waving the map of Honey Swamp at the stranger, “We’re trying to get here. You wouldn’t happen to know where that is?”

He studies the paper briefly, all he needs for the expression on his face to change from bored amusement into dangerous seriousness. Castiel notices the switch, but before he can warn Dean the man aims a rifle at Dean’s face. Dean screams and falls off his seat and onto the floor once more.

“I knew this day would come,” he says, grip never wavering on the trigger, “but like hell I’m going without a fight.”

“Wait,” Castiel says, moving towards him, “this a complete mis –“ He quiets when the gun tilts up and lines with his heart for a kill shot. How the stranger flicks the safety off in practiced ease unnerves Castiel, but he won’t let his fear take the wheel. “Please, sir,” he continues, tone pitched evenly and calm like he was taught, “if you put the gun down, we can explain.”

“Oh, sure,” he scoffs, “I put my gun down and then your frou-frou buddy here pops a bullet between my eyes? If I were that stupid your boss would’ve gotten his hands on me _ages_ ago.”

“I promise you it’s not like that. We were only following directions on the journal –“

“You got the journal? Fuck, you take John down, too?”

Castiel steps back, stunned. A quick glance at Dean shows that this stranger finds the familiar mentioning of his father a shock as well. “No, we didn’t,” Castiel tells him, “we have it because, well – this is John’s son.” He kicks Dean, “Right?”

“What? Oh, right,” Dean says, “That’s me. John’s son – Dean. He – he must’ve mentioned me… right? …Please?” The whimper doesn’t help their case. Castiel notices that not even a flicker of consideration crosses the other man’s face, instead his finger lightly presses on the trigger.

“John’s boy?” he asks, scowling, “If that’s so… prove it.”

“Prove it? How do you want me to –“ His gun reels onto Dean again, forcing a change in his tune. “Proving it! Um… I’m Dean, I’ve got a younger brother Sammy and-and my mom, his wife, Mary –“

“Shallow research, boy. Need better than that…”

“Zeppelin!” Dean shouts then, startling Castiel and their captor, “My mom and dad – they were obsessed with the band. Which, considering it’s one of the greatest bands in the fucking world, makes total sense. He used to say the best moment of that entire day was seeing my mom walk down the aisle towards him while Page shreds it on ‘Immigrant Song’. He was the only one who appreciated her choice in the music.” He ducks his head under his arms, braced for a poor response. Castiel refrains from blowing even a heavy breath through his nose, frozen as he watches the other man digest Dean’s Hail Mary.

His gun lowers, Castiel’s stress alongside it. “I ain’t gonna shoot you boy,” he sighs when noticing Dean remains in his defensive stance, “I believe you.”

Dean first peeks from between a crack in his arms and seeing how non-threatening the other man looks without an armed weapon pointed at him, fully relaxes. “Thank God for Led Zeppelin…”

“However,” the other man says, staring at Castiel. He flexes his grip on the rifle, safety still off. “That don’t explain who your boyfriend is.”

“Not boyfriend,” Dean mumbles, the back of his neck burning under close scrutiny. “He’s a… friend. Helping me out with my dad’s journal.”

“What? Couldn’t get John to help? Sure the bastard’s lazy but…”

Dean glances back at him, he and Castiel sharing a look. Slight conversation, on who would break the news. While Cas has experience in this realm, he defers to Dean given the relationship. He clears his throat, voice cracking somewhat. “About that… my dad, he’s… he’s not around to help. Dead, that is. He’s dead. _Murdered._ ”

The stranger sobers at the news, tipping the cat over his eyes while mumbling a few silent phrases. His dog, Rumsfeld, looks equally sullen. But they both bounce back, hardness etched across his features. “Told John he’d get burned one day playing with fire,” he says, “especially given how rabid he was last I saw him.”

“Last time,” Dean jumps up, rocking their boat further. He grips the front, leaning over the murky water. “When was that? Recently? He came to see you recently?”

Unshaken by the outburst, the man instead lays his gun inside his boat. “Yeah, maybe two weeks ago? Although he knew better than to come in the dead of night.”

“We… we’re on a tight schedule.”

“Well now you’re on mine,” the other man says, “And I’m not in the mood t’bitch so out in the open, ‘specially about such sensitive matters. Instead of relying on the map, save yourselves the trouble.” He tosses a rope out that Dean barely catches. “Hitch up to my boat and I’ll guide you the rest of the way…”

Dean fumbles with the rope for a few minutes, grumbling the while. Fed up, Castiel steps in and overtakes. Doesn’t waste time stealing it from him, laying his hands over Dean’s so together they tie a strong knot on the front mast hook. When he backs off, Dean nervously rubs his hands on his jeans. Thanked him in a soft tone and a heavy blush.

It triggers a deeper red on Castiel’s already pinkish cheeks. Hiding his reaction from Dean, Castiel turns to the stranger as he fiddles with a thinner rope. A string nearly invisible in the swampy darkness. Bells hung near the trunk, jingling with every tug and loop. “I thought I heard ringing…”

“My alarm system,” he tells Castiel, “because nothing’s worse than unexpected company.”

“Is that a common problem you have? Unexpected company?”

“Since I moved here? Hell no…” He finishes, wiping the sweat off his brow with a swift flick of his wrist. “I’d think after all those other times they just plum stopped showing up altogether.”

Castiel arches a sharp brow, the stranger’s last statement too tainted with the bitter spice of experience to abandon. Some more information would help quiet the unease churning in his stomach. However, their conversation ends with the roar of the engine, leaving Dean and Castiel avoiding being overly doused from the front boat’s spray.

They weren’t far from the marked coordinates. Knowing this, Cas used his short amount of time strategically. Whispers, “Do you know who this is?” Casually, head bowed, and gaze trained forward.

Dean glances at him, frowning. Missing the memo, he shrugs animatedly. “I don’t really have that many memories of my dad. Ones I do… he never mentioned him.”

“Okay. Better question, do you trust him?”

“Dude pointed a gun at my face, don’t care he ended up _not_ shooting me,” Dean says, chewing on a hangnail. Gross, but given how his features creased in concentration, Castiel labels the action… _adorable_. “At this point the only people I trust are you and me.”

Castiel hadn’t expected that. His heart trips over itself, colliding with his lungs and stealing his breath. “Really? You trust me?”

“Well, yeah.” Dean cranes his head closer, Castiel’s following by instinct. Abandons any pretense of hiding their conversation. “Not every day I meet a guy who’s willing to stick around after all the shit I put him through.”

It’s a fleeting dip towards his lips, a risk Castiel cannot resist. On his climb back, Castiel sees the forfeit broke the spell.

Dean chuckles, competing with the motor. “If I… y’know, was into that kind of thing.” Clearing his throat, Dean rigidly composes himself. Castiel studies the plastic-like way he holds his body, as if he were a doll unused to having joints. A living Ken, sans Barbie. But with extra padding down below, the memory of their collision branded in his memory.

“Hey, Dean’s _friend_ ,” the stranger calls, “you gonna sit there until an alligator bites your ass? Or are you gonna come in?”

They parked by a little shack precariously balanced on wooden beams, a small staircase connecting the shack with the dock their boats rest against. Dean, at some point when Castiel was lost in his thoughts, already fled from their transport. Standing beside the other man, dwarfing him by comparison. Dean’s height aided by the heels on his boots and because the stranger, like with his shirt, forgot his shoes, too.

Castiel climbs out of the boat, ignoring Dean’s offered hand and dodging Rumsfeld’s attempts at shoving him off into the depths. “I have a name, you know.”

Snorting, the stranger rolls his eyes. “Think that makes you special? I got a name, too. Don’t see me whining about it”

“Oh really?” Castiel asks, gaze narrowing, “I must have missed your introduction. Was it before or after you levelled a gun at our face?”

“Hey,” Dean cuts in, “no need to rehash the past. Especially since _he still has it_.” Castiel sees the gun, casually resting on the stranger’s shoulders. His hovering thumb by the trigger doesn’t scare Castiel as much as it does Dean, though. “Don’t mind Cas, he’s just a grumpy son-of-a-bitch. Like some kind of… grumpy _cat_.”

“What kind of cat is _grumpy_ –“?

“Heh, yeah I can see it.” The stranger begins climbing the steps without prompt, Dean and Castiel at his heels. “Maybe add a few whiskers. If you want, I got some I plucked off a catfish that I had for dinner. You interested?”

Castiel’s mouth stretches thin at the suggestion. “I’m good.”

“Well suit yourself then.” He opens the front door, letting Rumsfeld bound in before entering. “No sitting, no touching. The only thing you can do is ask questions. But make it snappy, I don’t want my whole night wasted on some interview.”

While small on the outside, the one-room shack seems tinier. Packed with an array of knick-knacks and furniture that clutters the space. Like a heavy armchair that bends the wood it rests on, Castiel wondering how it hasn’t fallen into the swamp yet. Or an old cast-iron stove near the corner of the room, bookended by a cooler and a half-empty package of water bottles. Rumsfeld makes his bed by a small card table set up in the middle, curling under one of the folding chairs. The stranger, meanwhile, rests his gun in the missing space in a row of five.

Castiel tries scouring over the smaller details hidden inside the messy space. It’s hard tearing his gaze away from the most criminal aspect of the room. His badge burns uncomfortably after noticing a section of the shack dedicated to a miniature pot farm. “You grow marijuana?”

“Yeah, you want some?”

“No!” Castiel snarls, “Don’t you know how serious a felony that is?”

“It’s just a plant, man. No harm.” The stranger pauses, glaring over his shoulder at Castiel. “Unless you’re some kind of narc…”

Dean wades into their tension again, laughing. “Nope!” he says, throwing an arm over Castiel’s shoulder, “Cas’s a little sensitive, s’all. He had this _really_ bad trip, so he kind of swore off that kind of stuff.” Faltering, somewhat, at the other man’s blank stare, Dean coughs. “So… you know who we are. Who are you? And how do you know my dad?”

He allows silence a momentary reign, quietly shuffling over to the armchair. Sits down, uncaring how the floorboards creak underneath the added weight. The stranger removes his cap, running a hand through his scraggly hair. “Your daddy and I served in the same squad over in ‘Nam,” he tells them, pulling a set of dog tags free from his overall’s front pockets. “Probably the closest thing I had to a best friend out in that hellhole…” He tosses the tags, Castiel catching them without missing a beat. Castiel reads the name printed on the thumb-sized metal slip.

“Mr. Singer –“

“Call me Bobby,” he says, “don’t very much look like a ‘mister’ now do I?” Given how he follows this statement with an exaggerated crotch scratch, legs spread wide, Castiel finds no fault in agreeing with him.

“Bobby,” Castiel continues, “John came to see you, what was it about?”

Bobby rolls his neck, cracking it. “He swung by looking awful, smelling… well, like a swamp. Clear enough the man was coming off a high, the glazed look in his eye and sweat stains a little overkill, really,” he tells them, “I figured he hitting me up for some money. Whenever he’s in town he skulks around where I do my monthly supply run, always asking for a loan he promises to pay back. Except this time, he came to _me_. Going on about stuff we weren’t never s’posed to be talking about.”

“And that would be?”

“Stuff I ain’t never s’posed to be talking about,” Bobby growled, “what about that ain’t clear?”

Dean purses his lips, dimples flashing in the dim lighting. Obvious that his patience with the other man has worn thin. “Listen, buddy, I don’t care if you and my dad swore this blood oath or whatever over some secret. I wouldn’t even care about the damned secret, but the bastard went ahead and got me involved!”

“Trust me when I say it’s better you don’t know. Both of you,” he says, “The past… what we saw, and _did_ … it follows you. We all had to carry our own weight once we came back, some couldn’t take it after a few days while others managed to make it far before succumbing. And then there’s people like your dad, who turned to _different methods_ to keep from blowing his fucking brains out!”

Castiel shakes hearing this, faltering. He chances a glance at Dean, seeing his face struck ghostly white. Eyes wide, but dimples still present. Persistent even in the face of an immeasurable abyss. Dean will not blink.

“I don’t care,” Dean tells Bobby, fists squeezed tight at his sides, “I’m _not_ my dad.”

Bobby meets his stare with his own, dark bags noticeable alongside many other details Castiel wrote off. How his gray hairs looked sickly and thin while framing gaunt, hollow cheeks, and how his overalls hung baggy over pointy shoulders. Signs of this dark secret taking their own tolls on the man. Poisoning him.

While loathe to admit it, Castiel understands Bobby’s reticence. That doesn’t mean they can walk away with nothing.

“You don’t have to tell us what you don’t feel comfortable sharing,” Castiel starts, ignoring the sharp, indignant breath Dean draws from nearby. “However, it might be worth noting that Dean’s life is in danger. Mine too, by extension. Just as John’s was. We don’t need the dark details of what you did in the war, but if there’s anything you can tell us about _who_ might want John – or us – dead because of a journal… that would be more than enough.”

It’s a fair compromise, one Castiel hopes Bobby accepts. Which he does after a long-suffering sigh. “But,” he adds, dragging a hand over his face, “get me a beer first. Cooler.”

Conflict flickers across Dean’s features, weight shifting as he debates. Fingers skimming the pocket where he keeps the chip. Stealing the decision from him, Castiel hurries with the bottle. Pops the cap off with his keys for added measure. He hands it over, “John must have come by for more than a trip down memory lane. You said he usually comes by for money?”

“Yeah,” Bobby nods after a sip, “I was halfway through telling him how I meant the last time was the _last time_. But he laughed me off with some sort of cackle that scraped against my bones. Spent the next half hour chewing my ear about how he was about to come into some serious cash. That he’s got the goods on someone big, about what we did in the Far East and how they were connected…”

“Did he tell you who?”

“No, and I didn’t ask,” Bobby huffed, “I already knew too much. Knowing more was only asking for trouble. Of course, John didn’t seem to get that through his thick skull… whatever skill God gave him with a sniper He must have balanced it out. Man could miss the most obvious things even if they happened right in front of him. There wasn’t going to be any pot of gold at the end of his rainbow.”

Castiel frowns, “Did you try stopping him?”

A snort breaks the tense silence, coming from Dean. “Dad was as stubborn as all hell gets out… when he gets an idea in his head, there ain’t no turning him off. Bastard fucking walked into his own assassination…”

Bobby chugs the rest of his beer, carelessly tossing the bottle behind him. Its crash startles Dean and him. Standing, he crosses the short distance towards Dean until he can lean on his shoulders. “He might be stubborn, but it wasn’t all him,” Bobby tells him, “those drugs he was on… he’d do anything for his next fix. I bet he knew the risk and didn’t care.”

“How does that make it any better?” Dean asks, “He was willing to face death instead of _asking_ for help. Instead of… _staying_. We could’ve –“

“You’d’ve been no help,” Bobby says. Dean freezes, a rebuttal ready on his lips. Bobby hushes him easily. “Really, I meant what I said earlier. There’s no help that exists for people like us, and even if there were we don’t deserve it. There’s only one way out, and our punishment is however many days we make it from then to that moment.” Stepping back, Bobby offers a tense chuckle. Castiel gasps for air he didn’t realize was needed, so enraptured he forgot to breathe. “We thought we were doing our country proud… and if we made a few hundred dollars more than other soldiers, even better. It was just a job, go in and go out. No bleeding hearts in our unit, no one willing to ask just _what_ or _who_ we were fighting…”

Castiel reaches for him, “What do you mean –“

_Ringringring_

Rumsfeld rises from his nap, snarling. All three men turn towards the window, peering out into the darkness. Castiel and Bobby both move closer for a better look, Dean left behind. Trapped in the tar Bobby puked all over his shoes.

It’s difficult in the low light, but Castiel sees at least two boats creeping through the trees. Silent, either motors lulled for the ambush or set so low the faint hum is indistinguishable from the other sounds of the swamp. “Is this the unexpected company you were talking about?”

Someone fires a gun and shatters the upper-left window pane, glass raining onto Castiel’s head. Bobby and he duck under while Dean launches himself behind the armchair. “Seems like it!” He yells, “Get me my gun!”

Dean peeks from behind the chair, “Which one?”

“ _Any_!”

Three more bullets were fired in the time where Dean grabbed a gun and tossed it at Bobby. The other man caught it with ease, quickly lining up a shot in the now windowless opening and shooting twice. Each bullet hit true, grunts and splashes audible even from where they were.

Bobby drops as another series of bullets fly overhead. “You two need to get out of here, stat!”

“But,” Castiel tries arguing, “what about you? These men –“

“Were dead the second they stepped foot in my swamp,” he says, “I’ll provide cover, you get Dean and that journal out of here and you two _leave_ the state. Hell, the country even. What his daddy found out – it ain’t worth losing your lives. Let it die with us.” Bobby ends the discussion by firing another bullet into an attacker, fully immersed in the battle. “Come and get me you devils!”

Castiel buries every instinct he has so he can follow Bobby’s orders. Dean, who had crept closer in the meantime, waits nearby. He looks at Castiel, “What do we do?”

“…We run.”

“Works for me.”

They burst through the door, clambering down the steps and over towards their boat. Castiel flings himself onto it, revving the engine while Dean unties them from Bobby’s boat. Curses followed by an ‘all clear’, all underscored by bullets ricocheting off tree bark and plunking in water. With their motor working, Castiel kicks up the power and deftly escapes.

In doing so, they must pass through the enemy blockade. With weapons blasting on both sides, Castiel steers them through the gap between the two attacking boats.

One of the men on the right boat locks eyes with him, and the chill that comes from recognition rushes through him. It’s the same man from the alleyway, who was so eager to strangle Dean. Leave him until some unfortunate soul happened by. Returning as his job was left unfinished.

And will remain. Immediately following their stare down, a bullet crashes through his eye. Bits of goo, blood, and brain fly everywhere as he slumps over the bow and into the depths below. By then they have faded into the protective denseness on their return trip.

Navigating the route back seems easier. Although Castiel cannot recall how they make it back, nor can tell how long it took. Neither can Dean. They drift towards shore until the boat can move no further. Disembark in a somber fashion, robotically dragging their vessel the rest of the way.

From where they landed, the tour company’s boat shed can be seen. With its swinging, open doors and the _multiple_ missing crafts.

Silently, they abandon the boat. Trudge from the swamp in single file until they arrive at Dean’s car. Dean fumbles his keys with shaking hands, missing the hole too many times. When he unlocks the door, they each release a stalled breath neither knew they held. Getting in, Dean asks, “Where to now?”

Castiel shrugs, “Take me home.”

“Okay.”

Driving past the sign, Castiel finds the tense atmosphere inside the cabin suffocating. He touches the radio knob, recoiling slightly when he remembers Dean’s rules. Glancing at the driver’s seat, he sees Dean white-knuckling the steering wheel and gaze focused on what’s ahead of him. Castiel flicks the radio on, flipping through stations until he finds one he likes. Watching Dean all the while.

He says nothing about the radio. Only speaking when needing directions. Castiel guides him through the sparse New Orleans streets. Barely anyone out except those like them, ragged and searching for a place to rest.

Dean parks in his usual spot, a reminder Castiel left his car at the station. “Dammit,” he sighs, “I’m going to have to call a cab or something to work tomorrow…”

“Really?” Dean asks, “After everything we’ve been through, you’re still worrying about your job?”

“What else can I do?”

Sighing, Dean kills the engine. “Ain’t that the question of the hour…” He exits his car, not waiting for Castiel as he walks towards the dilapidated two-story.

Castiel, although curious, will not broach why Dean remains. Instead filling the gap until they reach his door telling Dean how the shop underneath his apartment used to be a family-run business until the owner, a sweet, elderly woman, broke her hip. Her kids sent her off to a retirement home and the shop fell into disrepair. “A few people swing by every now and then, interested, but somehow it never closes.”

“That’s a shame,” Dean says. He wobbles, waiting as Castiel searches for his keys. “What kind of store would you want?”

“Pardon me?”

“If there had to be a store under here,” he explains, “what kind would you want to live above?”

Castiel pauses with the keys in his hands, mulling over the question. He turns, smiling. “I think I’d like a bookstore,” Castiel answers, “Quiet, friendly, plus it would save me the trouble of having to go across town to buy myself books.”

Dean scoffs, matching Cas’s expression with a tired grin of his own. “You’re such a fucking nerd, Cas.”

“First you thought I was a spy, then that I was trustworthy… and now I’m a nerd.” He unlocks the door. Open, he does not cross the threshold yet. “Is there any other facet of my personality you’ve uncovered?”

Stepping past the bubble of personal space, Dean wraps Castiel’s tie around his hand. “The night’s still young.”

The few seconds left in what Castiel labels ‘before’ are a muddied puddle. Maybe Dean tugs him forward, or perhaps Castiel – aware of what might happen – leaned forward. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because their lips touch and a foreign feeling settles itself over Castiel’s soul. He knows what happiness feels like, and while romantic Castiel is aware that love does not spring to life like Aphrodite from her clamshell. Kissing Dean feels wholly different. Like clear summer skies on a Saturday afternoon, sun shining overhead while grass tickles at his feet.

It’s peace. Peace Castiel thought would never fit into his life ever again. Peace he greedily sucks up without another thought.

They break for air, foreheads pressed against each other. “That was…”

“So you are…”

They giggle, Dean pressing a light kiss on the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “Do you want to come in?” Castiel asks.

Dean nods, “Right now it’s the only thing I want…” Given the green light, Castiel slams their mouths together again in a fiercer embrace. Blindly entering, door slamming behind them, somehow winding up on Castiel’s bed.

Castiel and Dean forget the sword hanging over their heads, shedding the night’s events with each discarded piece of clothing. Taking what they can, unknowing if there will be any other moment they might be able to do so. This unsurety, normally avoided in Castiel’s life, enhances each scrape and touch until both are writhing messes too focused on their passion that any other thought gets shunted into the background.

Much like the journal, flung open at some point, where a young John Winchester blankly smiles up at the ceiling.

* * *

Castiel stretches, blearily blinking one eye open. The other smushed, along with half his face, into his pillow. He yawns, “Dean?” No response. Turning over, Castiel sees the other side of the bed mussed and empty. Checking the nearby clock, he guesses whatever trip taken through unconsciousness was short-lived as it’s not half-past two in the morning yet. “Dean?” he tries again, louder. There’s no answer, but he hears something.

Light filters in through a creak in his door, as does some mumbled words in a familiar timbre. Castiel rises from the bed, snatching his underwear and stepping into them as he moves closer. He still cannot understand the conversation on the other side, but his heart eases knowing Dean remains with him.

Opening it, Castiel finds an equally underdressed Dean standing by his phone. His squeaking hinges alert the other man to his presence, drawing a bright smile forward. Dean ends the call with a muttered goodbye, placing the receiver back on the base. “Hey,” he says, “didn’t think you’d be up for a little while longer?”

Castiel strides forward, kissing Dean and slipping a hand behind the waistband of his underwear so he can squeeze an ass cheek. “Neither did I,” he tells Dean, “but I guess my body knew you were up…” His brow arches while glancing at his phone. “What were you doing?”

Chuckling, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders. “Got a little hungry,” he admits, “figured I’d order us something… raided your kitchen for a menu.”

“You went through my things?”

“Chill, it was only a few drawers,” Dean says, “although I did plan on checking your bathroom cabinet after I ordered the takeout. Since your up… I’ll have to wait until you fall back asleep again.”

“Plan on staying that long?” It’s a teasing question. Yet Castiel hopes for an affirmative.

Dean drags his answer out, gnawing on his lip while avoiding any eye contact with him. “I guess,” he sighs, “beats the crummy motel I was staying in.”

“Of course.”

“And two’s better than one,” he adds, a grin unfurling like a spring blossom, “felt very safe back in your bedroom…” Hands trace the curves of his muscles, lightly squeezing his skin. “When you swore to protect and serve, did you apply that to _every_ part of your life?”

The simple comment, an attempt at joining in the levity, sucks all the joy from Castiel. Reminds him of their predicament, the circumstances of their meeting, and who they are to each other. They aren’t _just_ Castiel and Dean, and until the danger passes it’s a delusion he cannot afford again. He frees himself from Dean’s hold, and with arms folded over his chest, he looks away.

“It’s just a dumb slogan,” Castiel mumbles, “doesn’t even mean anything…”

Castiel should have brushed the comment off, pretended like he wasn’t affected. Because, given how prickly Dean’s stare became, his discomfort is obvious. Dean sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?”

“I know I shouldn’t be joking in this sort of situation,” he explains, scratching his head, “but it’s sort of this thing I do and… look, you seem very serious about your job. Don’t know why but I-I’m sorry if I said something I shouldn’t’ve.”

His heart pangs at Dean’s sweetness, his immediate jump that the blame lies squarely on his shoulders when it has no reason being there at all. “Dean,” Castiel says. He waits until the other man looks up. “It’s not that.”

“Then what’s causing you to...” Dean gestures around himself, frowning. “Y’know, besides the obvious?”

In a fleeting moment of hysteria, Castiel considers spilling his troubles. Cutting at the tangled web resting inside his chest and dumping the mess at Dean’s feet without thought of how that might change things between them. That thought comes a second later, and he fears how Dean might see him after. Maybe when he looks at Castiel, he’ll see the same thing all his coworkers do. What he’s sure his family sees, what’s present in every reflection.

Castiel finds his gaze roving towards a photograph hanging on the wall, where his family gathered round in celebration while he wore his dress blues. Parents smiling on his right, his sister Hannah wedged between Castiel and them, and finally his brother Gabriel on the end. A crowd milling behind him, filled with other cadets and their families. People who were succeeding far better than Castiel in the job.

“I can’t do much of anything for you,” Castiel admits, “maybe once… but not as I am now.”

“You kidding Cas? You _saved_ me, you found Bobby –“

“But I could be doing more,” he talks over Dean, whirling to face him. “Conducting an official investigation, assigning armed guards to patrol your motel while we unearth the truth surrounding your father’s murder. If I were to bring _any_ of what I found to my bosses, they would dump your case into oblivion and punish me far more than they already are. Maybe even do away with me completely.” It’s a dark and tempting thought, one he would never feel proud giving them.

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks him, “Punish?” He puts a foot in front of him, stalling while he considers his next move. “You seem like the world’s worst stickler for the rules? How could you ever get into trouble?”

“By being exactly that. A _stickler_.” Castiel drops his guard, drifting towards Dean until his head rests on Dean’s shoulder. His will shudders while toeing the waters of his past and believes if he caught a glimpse of Dean the entirety of his resolve would crumble. “All I wanted to do when I grew up was help people. Older I got, the more enamored I became with the _idea_ of being a police officer. It seemed glamorous… all those books, shows, and movies about them helped. Like being a modern-day knight. So after I graduated I immediately applied for the academy. Some of what they taught struck me odd but… I figured they were preparing us for the worst, not an ordinary day. The tactics imposed and the-the culture was suffocating. But I persisted, believing I could overcome and still hold the moral high ground. If the whole system didn’t make it so damn hard…”

Dean rubs a gentle hand up and down his back. “What happened, Cas?”

“I bet I wasn’t the only one,” he says, “who thought they could go in change things. That it was only a few who perverted the mission, used it for their own gain. But there’s nothing there to change. The system’s too powerful… and you can let it either swallow you whole or break you. Me… I feel pretty shattered. Have, for a while. But I’m not sad about that. The only regret I have is I didn’t intervene sooner.”

He watched from his car, parked behind the officers while they interviewed a few kids they pulled over. Castiel gave them space for training purposes, as both men were fresh from the academy. After a few months of desk work they transitioned onto the field. While their classroom expanded, Castiel knew he couldn’t hold their hands the whole way. Instead he went over the details of the crime scene while the other men handled the routine questioning.

But then he heard it.

Screaming, crying, and a large thud. Castiel hurried out of his car, rushing onto the scene where one of the officers repeatedly kicked one of the kids. Without waiting Castiel tackled the attacker onto the ground, pinned him to the ground with a strong arm and asking what happened. The other officer started droning on how the kid was being disrespectful and shoved at Alfie. Badgering him to make an arrest. Meanwhile the kids gathered around their bruised friend, refuting each claim that was stated. Their story was that Alfie made an offensive comment and their friend, Kevin, called him on it. Next thing that happened Alfie shoved Kevin to the ground.

Castiel heard enough. “I want you two to report back to the precinct _immediately_.” He picked Alfie up and stood between him and the kids, waiting until his officers fled from the scene. Red-and-blue lights blinking into the distant fog. Then, he checked on the hurt teen. “I’m so sorry,” he says, “you should go to a hospital, make sure they didn’t cause serious injury.”

“I’m… sue…”

“As you should.” He backed away, handing his card off to the wary girl holding him upright. “If he needs anything at all, please. It’s the least I can do.”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean huffs into the shell of his ear, “that’s fucked up. Was the kid okay?”

Castiel shrugs, “He broke a few ribs and his jaw was dislocated, but nothing else. I’m sure the city’s settlement helped, though, as well as knowing the officer who did that to him was terminated instead of reshuffled back into the deck.”

“Wait, that happens?”

“More times than you can think,” Castiel says, “Would’ve happened to Alfie, too, if it weren’t for… if I hadn’t…”

The girl didn’t call him, but Kevin’s mom did. Linda asked for some time: a proper thank you for protecting her son. Castiel brushed her off the first few times, but after being put on leave while the department conducted their investigation, Castiel found no reason why he shouldn’t go.

That reason presented herself as Billie De Morte, public defender and the representation for the Trans’ case against the New Orleans Police Department. “I talked myself into thinking it was okay,” he says, “That the case was clear-cut anyway, there was no possible defense for Alfie’s actions and yet… all they needed was one slip-up. One more and I’d be gone for good.”

Dean hums a thoughtful note in the back of his chest, worrying Castiel. The longer he digests the information, that he must wait for a response, the worse scenarios his brain conjures up. However, Castiel does not imagine the five-words Dean finally says.

“And that’d be bad why?”

A simple question, and one that has been asked many times before. Yet it echoes within Castiel, overpowering the tired answers he always gave. Weakened from Castiel voicing the entirety of his problems that have eaten at him worse than a moth in a closet. Dean waits for an answer, expectant, brows raised in anticipation.

He never gets it, though, as someone knocks on the door.

Castiel gladly ends the intense moment they shared. “Must be the takeout you ordered,” Castiel laughs, wiping at his eyes, “Why don’t you get my wallet from my pants, and I’ll answer the door.”

“…Sure…”

Dean disappears into his bedroom while Castiel moves to answer the incessant knocking. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” He unlocks it, drawing the door back.

Two things happen. From the other room, Dean yells for him. Castiel, startled, shifts from the opening. Turning towards Dean to ask for clarification. It doesn’t matter, since three pops ring from the open doorway.

“Damn,” someone says, “I hate wasting bullets.”

Castiel tries closing the door. The intruder kicks it in, forcing him from the entrance and into Dean who ran in from the bedroom. “What was that?”

“That was me. And _this_ is your death Dean Winchester.”

A tiny blonde girl holds a steady aim as she points her weapon at Dean. She looks barely old enough for a license to drive, let alone one allowing possession of a firearm. Castiel quickly studies her clean dress, her black beret and pinstripe skirt, and swallows his fear. Unlike the others who came after them, _she_ was a professional. “Hold on,” Castiel tries, “can’t we talk this out?”

“Nope,” she says, “that point passed the second your _friend_ took what didn’t belong to him.” Her eyes rake over their undressed state. She smirks, blood red lips stretching thin. “At least you two got to have a little fun before it’s all over…”

“You really think this will tie up all the loose strings?” he asks, “I’m a cop, if you –“

“I’m well aware of who you are, Mr. Novak,” she cuts him off. “And I know that no one will really care that your gay lover blew your brains out before he did the same to himself. Now,” She gestures them towards the bedroom, “you already caused me enough trouble tonight, not dying when you were supposed to. Least you can do is set yourselves up, so I don’t have to drag you in there once I’ve killed you.”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand, unaware he grabbed it at some point. His mind whirls in a tornado of hopelessness, unsure how they might escape.

He shouldn’t worry, though. Dean steps from behind Castiel and stares down the muzzle of their attacker’s gun. “You do that,” he says, “And I promise whatever my father started, I’ll _end_.”

“Strong words from a _queer_ in his whities.”

Dean uncharacteristically snickers, shoulders squared and firm despite the possibility of being shot at any second. “Okay, then how about these words. Right now, there’s a package waiting to be sent out. A package filled with photocopied pages from my dad’s journal plus the information about what it all means that we got from his friend. A package that will only be sent to my brother if I cannot call the clerk’s desk before noon tomorrow.”

Castiel watches Dean, curious at the play he makes. The placid assuredness unsettles him, and Castiel cannot shake the feeling that some truth exists in what he said. Wonders why he kept this card so close that he wouldn’t tell Castiel even though he trusted him. Glancing at their attacker, it seems the same worry gnaws at her.

“I doubt it,” she scoffs, “besides, we’ll just track your brother down and kill him, too. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“You think you can get to him in time?” Dean asks, “Right now, interning in our nation’s capital, I’m sure he can put that information into some pretty powerful hands. Doubt that’ll be good for your boss.”

It’s a tense few seconds where nothing happens except her trigger finger twitching erratically. Finally, she lowers her gun. “What do you want?”

“I want to meet your boss,” Dean says, “I want to work out a deal. One that I get to walk away from all this… alive.”

The seed of doubt nestled in Castiel’s stomach erupts into a full-blown tree that shadows any certainty he ever truly understood Dean Winchester.


	3. Meet Your Maker

_November 28, 1985_

Castiel didn’t flinch when the screen door opened behind him, its rusted hinges mixing with the ever-present nighttime chirping of the backyard insect choir. His grip tightened in anticipation of who left the warm atmosphere inside to join him. When the visitor sits beside him and rests their head on his shoulder, Castiel relaxed. Only one person used his head as her personal pillow.

“Castiel,” Hannah sighed, “is everything okay?”

He shrugged, sipping at his beer. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because _okay_ people don’t sit outside, all alone on the holidays.” She wrapped her arm around him, rubbing small circles into his shoulder. “Dad told me what happened, with your job.”

“Dammit…” He hoped news about his demotion would stay secret a little while longer. Or forever. It wasn’t necessary information seeing how he still worked within the police department albeit at a reduced capacity. Castiel could float by on generic updates if his parents didn’t sink his ship. “It’s nothing –“

“Doesn’t sound like _nothing_ ,” she teased, “especially if you’re sulking. Drowning yourself in booze.”

“I’m not drowning, this is my second beer.” He pushed her off him, standing. “Hannah, it’s… fine. Really, nothing more than a roadblock.”

“Or maybe it’s an opportunity?”

Castiel paused, rounding on his sister. She fiddled her thumbs, an air of innocence drifting about her. A tiny glow shined overhead, her glasses resting on her crown reflecting some of the porch light. “What are you talking about?”

“Well…” Hannah rose with eyes still downcast. “It’s not like you _enjoyed_ working there. Maybe this is an opportunity for you to do something else with your life? Something safer, even…”

He shied away from her comforting touch, hand left hanging between them. Hannah, while supportive, never understood why he chose the path of a police officer. Another reason why he kept from telling her – Castiel didn’t need _another_ voice in the chorus begging for his exit. “I can’t just up and quit, Hannah,” he said, “I have a duty.” 

She scoffed, “Yeah, a _duty_. But I don’t see how you can’t fulfill that in some other way, doing… anything else!”

Castiel worried his lip while a cocktail of darkness swirled in his stomach. He drained the remainder of his beer instead of letting slip the lynchpin of his stubbornness. Knowing that she would never understand. Wouldn’t feel the same soul-crushing disappointment Castiel will if he hands in his badge. Didn’t see that resigning, for him, meant an admittance that he failed. And by staying, no matter how much that tiny flame flickered, hope existed Castiel might one day make the change he wished to see.

“There isn’t anything else for me,” he said, climbing up the steps, “Come on, I’m sure mom’s already doling out the pie.”

_Present_

Castiel keeps his gaze trained on the back of the car’s headrest, not acknowledging the gun trained on him a few inches away. Dean, on his right, squirms constantly. Knees jumping, his hand skimming Castiel’s for a brief moment until he tears it away. Any bravado he felt confronting their kidnapper disappeared when she finally agreed with his bargain.

“Fine,” she smiled, “I’ll take you.” She waited by the door while they gathered their things, tapping the muzzle of her gun while hawkish eyes followed their every move. Any chance Castiel could steal a few seconds of Dean’s time, ask if he truly set up a contingency plan, vanished. What information he could gather before being shoved into the back of a large, black sedan was the name of the girl holding the gun.

“Lilith.”

“Lilith?” he asked, “Just that? No last name?”

“Lilith is all you need to know.”

She leans forward in her seat, drawing Castiel’s gaze from the headrest. Lilith whispers into the driver’s ear, waiting for his response. When received, she slinks back into her seat. Castiel looks off so she won’t catch his gaze. Now he stares at his reflection in the shaded windows. Another disparaging aspect of their situation. The tint hides their location, meaning Castiel doesn’t know where they were being taken and how long they’ve been on the road for.

Suddenly the driver spins the wheel, Castiel shoving into Dean from the momentum. Dean’s arm curls around his waist, holding him tight even though the driver straightened out. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Lilith says, brushing a stray lock of Castiel’s hair with her gun, “we’re here.”

The car rolls to a stop, Lilith gesturing towards the door nearest Dean. “Where’s _here_?” he asks her, unmoving.

“Do you think you have any power to ask me that?” she scoffs, “Get out and see for yourself.”

Castiel listens, reaching across Dean for the handle. “Be obstinate later,” he mutters, “when we’re not being held at gunpoint.” Dean rolls his eyes but steps out, Castiel behind him. They shuffle a few inches and stop when Lilith tells them. She leaves them with the driver, climbing up the large front steps towards an intricately carved door. Lilith presses on an intercom and speaks into it.

He uses the lapse in action to scan the surrounding area. Studying it in a less obvious manner, unlike Dean who gawks at the massiveness of the building in front of them. Castiel guesses he never saw a plantation house. It’s sprawling landscape and historic architecture ordinary for southern natives who grew up going on school-led tours of places like these. However, Castiel doubts Lilith would murder them in a museum. The property must be where the mysterious puppeteer of their horrible night rests, meaning whoever wants them dead has _money_. An unsettling fact that means he and Dean have less a chance than thought of escaping with their lives.

“Bruno,” Lilith calls, “bring them up!”

The driver nods, snatching their collars as he pushes them upwards. Castiel walks with Bruno, letting their driver lead to lessen the overall pain. Dean thinks differently, kicking the entire way up. Cursing despite knowing it won’t do anything. When they reach the door, Bruno releases Castiel gently but throws Dean onto the welcome mat.

Lilith mockingly bows, pointing at the entrance. “He awaits you in there.” She stays put, marking an end for her journey. Castiel and Dean exchange twin looks of confusion at her display. It’s cleared momentarily when Lilith aims her gun once more. “Start walking.”

Dean hurries through the door a second after she makes her threat. Castiel scowls at Lilith, and then follows.

They walk the dimly lit hallway, Dean’s hand dragging behind. Close enough so Castiel can offer a reassuring squeeze. Dean draws his hand back, a confident calmness overtaking his features. Prepared for whatever he might face. At the end of the hall was a small opening, shadows dancing while the sound of firewood crackled.

The hallway lead to an expansive foyer, darkness reigning save the sole fireplace burning a few feet away. Sitting in a plush armchair, a man stood and revealed himself. “Well look what finally turned up,” he drawls, ice cubes clinking while he lazily stirs his drink, “you boys have been through a lot haven’t you? Why not take a seat?”

Castiel feels a chill roll down his spine, recognizing the home’s owner. He grabs for Dean’s wrist in a chokehold, tugging on it. “Dean,” he says, “Dean this is –“

“Ow, Cas! What is it?”

“Gentlemen?” Their host clears his throat, accompanied by multiple guns cocking, “I don’t care for asking twice.”

What slim hope Castiel had crumbles into ash now that their full hand had been dealt. He releases Dean and slinks over to the ornate couch nearby. Dean joins him seconds later, ignorance an effective shield. “Nice digs,” he says, “it come with the whole evil bad guy thing?”

He laughs, sipping at his drink. “No, it comes with the whole being rich-and-in-charge thing.”

“In charge of what?”

“Of the great state Louisiana, of course? I’m sure you must’ve seen my face at some point, though your stay has been… short and action-packed.” Governor Charles Shurley chuckles again, playing with the red tie wrapped around his neck. Charles sits, crossing his legs over one another. “Not many visitors are treated to such a meeting. You should feel honored, Dean.”

Dean folds his arms, “I’m feeling something all right…”

Charles finishes his drink. He holds it out and, without a word, someone grabs it from his hand. Freed, it laces with the other and taps at his chin. “My associate Lilith said you have a deal for me? I hope it’s not like your daddy’s. You must know it didn’t end well for him, now… right?”

The jab works, Dean seizing with anger. Luckily Castiel reigns him in, keeping a firm hold on his shoulder. “So you’re the one who killed him?”

“Heavens no,” he tells Dean, “murder’s such a common act. Not my kind of thing… no, one of my men did the deed.” Charles directs their attention towards a short column and a small vase resting on top it. Castiel sees the spider-webs of cracks marring its features, made more noticeable by the missing handle. Similar in shape and size to the one John had on him at his time of death. “Happened right there… I’d introduce you to the man who did the damn deed but thanks to you he’s now rotting somewhere in a swamp.”

“So that’s why you sic’d Charlie’s Angel on us, huh?”

Charles snorts, slapping his knee. “Haven’t heard that one yet,” he says, “If you truly are as ignorant as you say you are, then you stumbled into a right funny one. Woo…” Wiping a stray tear from his eye, Charles settles further into his seat. “While I appreciate the comparison, I doubt Lilith would. She’s much more of a _devil_ than an angel…” His amusement does great work disconcerting Dean. “What? Nothing else to add?” Charles turns from Dean, moving on. “What about you Castiel?’

Castiel’s breath hitches, “You know who I am?”

“I am the governor, as I find myself repeating…” He unfolds his legs, switching for the other. “But don’t consider yourself _too_ special, I only finished reading your record maybe an hour ago? Compelling stuff I might say… like pouring through Moby Dick.”

Accepting the dig for what it was, Castiel brushes off the distraction. He decides to play along with Charles for now, knowing that if they were in danger Charles would not hesitate in ordering their deaths. There’s a reason they’ve lasted this long in his house, and until the governor changes his mind Castiel will take advantage of this grace period. “How are you involved in all of this?”

Charles hums, steepling his fingers. “Not in the mood for small talk?” He purses his lips in indignation, refusing answer. “Disagreeable as ever, like it says in your files. No wonder your uncooperativeness cost you your job…” Tempting bait, but Castiel still refuses. “Well,” Charles says instead, “I don’t think I could do the story justice. Dean? Lilith tells me you’ve pieced together the puzzle, yes? Why not share us your findings…”

Dean catches on quickly with Castiel’s tactics, dimples flashing while he stands his ground.

Sighing, Charles mumbles under breath. “Fine,” he rises, “I guess I’ll do all the work.”

He walks up to the fireplace, sliding a poker free from where it rested with its siblings. Stokes the fire with swift motions, the fire casting an eerie glow across his face. “It starts like all great stories start… with a boy, and a dream. A dream of one day leading his great nation from the most powerful seat in the world. But to claim that seat, I’d need a lot of resources at my disposal. And yes, I was the simple son of a wealthy state contractor, afforded some of the best education and connections others would kill for… but I needed _more_. Unfortunately, around the same time I decided I might dip my toes in the waters of politics, people were getting cross with the long-term offensive we were launching across the seas. Talk about how the best and brightest of our future were being slaughtered, mind you I was afforded great leniency due to a childhood ailment that made me unfit for battle. With action slowing up in those musky jungles… it wasn’t good news for us. My father benefitted _greatly_ from the production of weapons that we used to fight the Red Menace. He was scared we’d lose a great deal of our wealth, and all those poor savages would _never_ know the loving touch of America as she bestows freedom with her gentle touch. Being the amazing son I am, however, I generated a mighty fine solution.”

Charles points at Dean with the poker, grinning. “That’s where your daddy comes in. An old buddy of mine from back in the day comes up to me at this function – I can’t remember the name, I go to so many. You know how it is… Anyway, he was on leave from his very important job with the military, and over drinks this man’s telling me about this rank of soldiers he oversaw who made rivers run red with commie blood, that’s how dedicated they were to the cause. Cried into his whiskey over how he’ll miss watching sights like that once they pull out. That gave me a _wonderful_ idea, a heavenly lightbulb shining in the darkness. I shared this… _revelation_ with him, and he was as pleased with the concept as I was.” The poker turns, tip of it resting in Charles’s hand. If it were still scalding from the heat, he won’t show. His expression stays gleeful while recounting the story. Instead Castiel’s palms feel like they’re being scarred from the poker, and how Dean’s fingers tense at his side, Castiel guesses the other man imagines the same torture.

“Now these men were the sort of folks who, when told the man at the other end of the barrel was a no-good Commie bastard, they didn’t ask how or why. They just shot and moved onto the next target. Who understood that if we were going to win and uphold the legacy of American exceptionalism a few eggs were gonna be broken. At least… that’s how their general sold them. But, _apparently_ , he exaggerated their loyalty. Because once one of ‘em figured out exactly who they were shooting, the whole unit started acting like chickens with their damned heads cut off! Even after we explained a little blood spilled on _our_ side was a necessity to boost morale for the war. Like I said, nothing gets people goin’ like a boogeyman!”

“Jesus Christ,” Castiel shudders, “You murdered for your fucking _profits_?”

“How many times must I tell you, Castiel, murder doesn’t agree with my constitution.” Charles snorts, waving the poker towards Dean again. “It was his daddy, and all his friends.”

Dean collapses further onto the couch, shoulder brushing up against him as he weathers through the story. Castiel cannot do much given the circumstances, but he wraps his pinkie around Dean’s and hopes it is enough. “Whether you pulled the trigger or not,” he continues, “you’re still a monster.”

“A monster? Little boy, I am no such thing.” He growls, fire roaring behind him. “A hero, maybe, if the spineless cowards up in Washington didn’t give in to all those long-haired pussies bitching all over! If I were where I belonged, calling the shots, we would’ve won. But now that Eastern shithole is just like a stain on an otherwise _pristine_ shirt. It only takes one to go from priceless… to _worthless_.”

Acid churns within Castiel’s stomach, singing the lining. How this man, who so callously played with people’s lives, managed to hold such great power within his state? Castiel remembers being part of the squad assigned as security detail when he ran a victory lap after winning a second-term. Waving, grinning from behind the bulletproof windows, bellowing from the pulpit… He ran on a platform about continuing his work, caring for the great state he felt proud calling his home. In reality, Louisiana was a stepping-stone. A pawn in a larger chess match, like all those soldiers in the jungle. Charles, the king, in no fear of checkmate. Unless…

It clicks, then, for Castiel.

“John Winchester was _your_ stain,” he surmises, staring up at Charles with a heavy gaze. “His book, it has something in there you don’t want getting out?”

Charles sighs and nods. “A little blackmail was to be expected, I confess. I’d be more disappointed if no one at least _attempted_ … only the greats get their secrets used against them. It wouldn’t have been too much of a problem if he would stay in one place, not hopping across the country like he did. Or went like the others, in bathtubs, running cars, or rope… They’re all in the same place, though. All because John boy finally grew a set of balls.” He whacked the poker on the fireplace, chipping the concrete with a sickening _crack_! Both he and Dean flinched from the sudden attack. “Big man, came here like he wasn’t anything more than a drugged-up bum… gloating how it’d be the end of me, all because of what he collected. Offered me a chance of doing _the right thing_.” Chuckling, Charles slips into a calmer tone. “When he scoffed at my last offer, saying it wasn't enough, what happened next was only natural…”

Dean seizes, drawing all attention his way. A few guards lift their guns, cocked in case he leapt at their boss. Castiel worried he might. Luckily, Dean stayed where he was. Shaking, he spoke. “What if _I_ take the deal?”

Charles’s brow arches. “Hmm?”

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, “you don’t –“

He talks over him, finally brandishing John’s journal. “I take the money, you get the book. We all walk away like nothing happened.”

Every eye turns to Charles, watching. Waiting for his response. Under the spotlight, Charles drags the performance on. His façade cracks in time, revealing a sinister grin. “Smart boy,” he says, “Although Lilith told me of a copy?”

“Gets burned up,” he tells Charles, “you have my word.”

“And why should I trust _your word_.” Charles roams, winding his way towards them. “You know everything that I’ve done, what I plan on doing… and your little boyfriend _ain’t_ the type to just let things go.”

Castiel hates how easily Charles guessed his angle. Every muscle screamed at Castiel, urging him to action. Being held back, restrained from serving justice, is suffocating. Like being back at work.

“Because it’s _my_ book, my story to tell. When we trade, then it’ll be _my_ money,” Dean says, looking at Castiel, “And I can do whatever I want with it. Like buying a remote cabin up in Montana or Washington for two, where you’ll never see hide or tail of us.”

Heartwarming, although a little forward. New Orleans might have given Castiel much grief as of late, but it’s still his home. A gleam in Dean’s eye keeps him from voicing his disdain.

“Look, Chuck,” Dean starts, ‘k’ rough in the back of his throat. “I just want this to end. I’m sure you want that, too, right? One last payment, and you can buy yourself an election. Probably familiar with that by now…”

Charles, albeit a short man, towers over them in this instant. His and Dean’s noses are almost pressed together as they traded volleys. Their silence was even scarier than anything they’ve said.

Lilith returns, interrupting the showdown. She carries in a sleek, black briefcase that she hands to Charles in exchange for the poker. Before backing off, Lilith whispers in Charles’s ear. Whatever was said, Castiel senses danger in the next few seconds. Especially with how easily Charles concedes.

“Really?” he asks, “You’re going to let us go? Like that?”

Charlies tuts, frowning at Castiel. “I’m not a violent man at heart, Castiel. Only when the situation calls for it. If no blood needn’t be spilled, then why spill it?” He laughs, a horrid thing that grates on Castiel’s ears. “You shall have your money, Dean. Packed up here graciously by my associates.”

Dean raises a brow, unmoved. “How much we talking?”

“I don’t know,” he smirks, opening the briefcase, “Is one-hundred-thousand enough for your silence?”

Castiel’s jaw drops from seeing the rich, verdant splendor in full display. Quickly glancing at Dean, he sees a reflection. Neither could have guessed such an amount could fit in there. “You’ve got to be joking,” Castiel growls, stunned, “this is too easy…”

The briefcase clicks closed. Charles hands it off to a nearby man, clapping when able. “You should have seen the looks on your faces,” he snickers, wiping at his eyes, “Oh, really… can’t believe you actually fell for it –“

“So there’s not actually a-hundred-grand in there?” Dean asks.

“There was,” Charles tells them, “but you two aren’t getting anything more than a bullet in the brain.” He gestures wildly, rough hands grabbing Castiel as they drag him from the couch. Dean, at his side, equally restrained. “See, when Lilith told me your back-up plan, I had my doubts. But seeing as it was _your_ daddy’s Plan B that got you involved in our tangled web, there weren’t any room for mistakes. So while we chatted, she called up a colleague of mine at the Post Office. _Any_ package being sent by a _Dean Winchester_ will be stopped and inspected as a possible explosive, at least for the next forty-eight hours. Although… I think we’ll find it by then.”

Lilith aims her gun at them again. “Unfortunately, this is where we part.” She walks forward, arm drifting between them. At Dean, then Castiel, back and forth. “Now, who should I kill first?” On Dean, “Will you be more upset, knowing that everything you believed in was a lie?” On Castiel, “Or seeing how the only reason he’s here is because of you, Dean, will that make you break down? Decisions, decisions…”

Castiel chooses for her. However, neither option seemed appealing. He created a third.

While Charles’s lackeys bracketed him, they did not prevent all his movement. Castiel balls his fist and strikes at one of their crotches. Distracted, he wretches his arm free to grab Lilith’s wrist. Her eyes widen from his actions, before they squint in rage. She pulls the trigger. The bullet misses Castiel, killing the other guard.

Twisting her wrist, he makes her drop the gun. Undeterred, Lilith rounds on him with a kick. Castiel catches that, too, tugging her close so Lilith’s back was flush against his chest. By then Charles, aware of what was happening, roars at the remaining men. They open fire on him, striking his shield while he rushes towards the couch.

He ducks behind it, Lilith dropped carelessly, and finds Dean there, too. Dean smiles, checking the bullets left in the discarded gun Castiel didn’t grab. “You know how to fire that?” Castiel asks.

“My mom’s family owned a shooting range,” Dean huffs, smirking, “you tell me.” Jumping up, Dean fires three rounds and drops two of the men shooting at them. The other one he greatly wounds, blasting away his kneecap. Hiding behind the couch again, Dean arches a brow.

It’s a short-lived victory. Someone grabs Castiel by the collar, lifting him from where he hides. His attacker’s face is heavily scared, and a silver tooth shines when he smiles. Castiel punches hard. That tooth doesn’t fall, but his grip on Castiel slackens. He punches again, ducking when the other man swipes at him. From the crouch, he dashes forward and knocks him backwards. Castiel searches his waistband, finding the gun he hoped was there. When they hit a wall, Castiel unloads two slugs into his chest. The lifeless body slumps onto the floor, blood streaked on an ugly portrait.

“Cas!”

Dean calls to home, surrounded by two men. Disarmed, he does his best at avoiding blows. One of them brutally swings, landing on Dean’s stomach. He falls on his knees, curled, protected from the kicks.

Castiel shoots at one. Stopped from killing the second because there were no more bullets. As Dean’s last attacker strides towards him, Castiel thinks quick. He throws the gun and hits the other man on his nose. While he deals with his broken, bloody nose, Castiel knocks him out in one punch.

He steps over him, helping Dean stand. “Thanks, Cas,” he says, hold lingering. It’s a perfect moment, in the grand scheme. Hearts racing, adrenaline pumping – all Castiel can think of while staring at Dean is dragging him into a kiss.

From how Dean’s eyes glaze over, he can assume his wishes are reciprocated. The fog clears from his stare, though, as Dean looks past Castiel and fear strikes his face. “Look out!” Dean tackles Cas onto the floor, nearly missing a blow from a poker.

Charles curses, branding his weapon. “I hate getting my hands dirty,” he growls, a wildness emanating from his body that weren’t there earlier. “I’m going to kill you both so _hard_ – gah!” He drops the poker, hand flying to his shoulder as blood seeps out.

Dean’s arm doesn’t waver as he holds the gun up. “That,” he says, “was for my dad.” His finger twitches, firing another round into Charles’s leg that forces him onto the ground. “And that’s for thinking you can waltz in and steal the Presidency, jackass.”

He writhes in pain, damning both he and Dean to hell. They rise above the name-calling, shuffling Charles’s way. Standing over him, they watch the powerful governor act like he truly is – a spoiled brat in the midst of a tantrum.

Dean looks at Castiel, “Please tell me you didn’t vote for him.”

“I campaigned for his opponent.” Castiel scowls, scanning the surrounding area. No one approached as they stood catching their breath, a good sign they dealt with every threat on the premises. “What should we do about him? Jail?”

Charles snorts, demanding their attention. “Please send me to jail,” he laughs, sneering at them, “I’d love to see you try.”

“What do you –“

Dean squeezes his shoulder, dimples flashing. “He’s the governor, Cas. And super wealthy. You think he’ll even spend a _night_ behind bars? Truthfully?”

If Dean asked a younger Castiel, fresh from the academy, he might have said yes. Bad people go to jail where they belong. But with experience, Castiel learned the system was never that black and white or, worse, used appropriately. It was a tool for the powerful for however they saw fit. He and his fellow officers preserving the status quo, and not justice. How many men like Charles roamed free across America, all because of who they know and what they own? Thoughts such as these open a bottomless pit in his stomach he could fall into and never surface.

“…I don’t know.” Castiel looks up at Dean, bottom lip wobbling, “I… I don’t know what to do.” Overwhelmed, all fight abandons him. Exhaustion makes his limbs heavy, eyelids sag. Dean supports him so he won’t fall.

“Hey, it’s okay Cas,” Dean tells him, “it’s okay –“

“It’s not.” Castiel drags a hand roughly through his hair, “I’m a cop, I should – it _should_ mean something. I _want_ it to.”

Dean rubs soothing circles into his wrist, grabbing it when he wasn’t aware. Lets the silence wash over them for some time before breaking it. “Okay.”

“Hmm?”

“If you think we should take him to jail,” Dean says, “then we call the police. I’m sure they’ll believe us…”

Castiel’s brows furrow, head tilting. “Do you really think that?”

“No,” he sighs, “But if that’s the choice you make, I’ll follow it without question. You’re one of the good ones, Cas. Whatever you decide, it’s got to be the right call.”

The idea of sweeping Dean in a grand embrace returns, Castiel acting on it. He cradles Dean’s cheek, savoring the stubble on his palm. Their kiss tastes stale and metallic, but the mix sends shockwaves throughout Castiel’s body. As his tongue runs against the seam of Dean’s mouth, Charles clears his throat. They stop kissing, glaring at him.

“If this is my punishment,” Charles drawls, pale from blood loss, “being forced to watch you engage in such deviance, then please use whatever bullets you have left and strike me down, now.”

Castiel reflects on his oath while debating what should be done. Studying Charles, counting the number of sins he has committed and all he would attempt if left unchecked sway his judgment. He looks at Dean, “Can you get your father’s book?”

Dean asks a question with a flick of his brow that Castiel does not answer yet. Nevertheless, he retrieves it from where it fell during the fight. “You want it?”

“No, but he did,’ he gestures at Chuck, “And I think we should give it to him.”

“What?”

“Book for the money,” Castiel tells Dean, “that was the deal you wanted? I think after everything he’s put us through, money’s the least he can give.” He walks towards the forgotten briefcase, grabbing its handle. “One-hundred thousand dollars can go a long way.” On his way back, Castiel drags the vase damaged during John’s visit. “Put the journal in here – after you’ve taken anything you want to keep.”

Nodding, Dean searches the journal. Pulls out a few photos that he stuffs into his jacket’s inner pocket. Then, he rolls the journal and stuffs it inside the vase. “Now what?”

“Now? We let this motherfucker burn in hell.”

Dean finally understands. Grinning, he pulls out his lighter and flicks it on. As if fate were on their side, a strong flame appears on the first try. Dean holds it close, waiting until the journal catches fire. When it does, he closes his lighter. They watch the journal deteriorate, all of John’s work crumbling into ash. The flame burns bright, the vase scalding Castiel’s hand. He throws it at a nearby curtain, the fabric highly flammable.

Fire climbs up the ceiling, Dean and Castiel mesmerized by its glow while Chuck – with his remaining strength – hurls insults at them. Dean leans towards Castiel, whispering, “Now what?”

“Run?”

They don’t run, yet. Castiel finds the guns he and Dean used, first, and wipes them clean. Calm despite the growing flames consuming the house. Then the two men journey further into the house, searching for another exit. Charles’s voice carries throughout the house until the crackling roar of fire overpowers him. While Castiel only finds closets and pantries, Dean leads them to a kitchen with a back exit. A few yards from the burning mansion, as the sun rises above them, is a forest. Freedom.

Now, they run.

Holding hands, briefcase smacking his thigh with every step, chest burning from fatigue. Neither he nor Dean stop until the house is far behind them. Their strides lessen until both men sag on nearby trees. The glow from Charles’s house still visible despite the distance. Castiel cannot tear his gaze from the flickering ember seen through the foliage. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“When you were talking about a cabin for two,” he says, gasping, “were you serious?”

Dean chuckles, finally drawing Castiel from the fire. “That sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“Maybe,” Castiel admits, smiling, “If, instead of a cabin in Montana, you’d be fine with an apartment in New Orleans.”

“Y’know… I don’t see a reason why that’d be a problem.” A boom echoes across the forest, most likely the house’s frame collapsing under its weight. “At least, anymore.”

Sirens wail in the distance, of fire fighters and police and others who they would be best avoiding. Not only that, but they have no clue where they are. Castiel has a million things racing through his head on what they should do. None of them seem as important as kissing Dean one more time.

Two more times.

They’ll leave eventually.

_Epilogue – One Year Later_

Castiel rests the phone in the crook of his shoulder, hands free to wipe away late-night smudges that accumulated on his glasses. “Okay, okay,” he says, laughing, “I don’t need you reminding me every time you call. It happened only once.”

Once was all Hannah needed, tormenting Castiel with his extreme tardiness at every opportunity. It wasn’t his fault, though, as Dean made him linger in bed with sloppy kisses and roving hands. When he did arrive, Hannah was on her way out. As he could not explain _exactly_ why he missed lunch, she coupled her teasing with creating fantastical scenarios that were outrageously untrue. She started slipping into one now, about being hitched by a random crane that carried him far past the city limits.

“Listen, _listen_ ,” he interrupts her, taking the phone in his hand again, “We’ll talk more later when I see you tonight, okay? I’ve still got to shelve the new inventory that came in the other day – okay… yes, I love you, too. …I’ll pass the message along. Bye!”

He ends the call, placing the handset back on the base. Then, Castiel grabs the box of books he left on the countertop and carries them towards the mystery section. Packing tape already sliced through, he begins taking books out. Places them in the shelves already cleared for them.

Castiel dawdles with one, brushing his thumb along the embossed title. _Jensen Samuels & the Mystery Healer_. A series about a hardboiled private eye, this copy details his latest caper tracking down a healer known for performing miracles after he becomes the number one suspect in a murder. He’s been a fan of this series since it began and cannot wait to see how this adventure unravels.

“Hey!” Dean calls from nearby, “Cas? You in here?”

“Yes! Back here.” Castiel stands, brushing dust from his knees while walking from the mystery section. Dean waits by the counter, going through their mail. Hearing Castiel’s footsteps, Dean spares a quick glance and a smile. Then kisses him when he arrives. “Anything interesting?” he asks, accepting his half of the pile.

“Bills, credit card offers – a trade magazine I left for you on your nightstand,” he rattles off, tearing open an envelope. “Plus… _this_ ,” he flashes the small card that fell from crème-colored wrappings. “Sam said it was s’posed to get here in a week, but guess we lucked out.” Castiel takes the card from it, scanning the invitation for Dean’s brother’s wedding. “You wanna be my plus one, Cas?”

“My schedule’s been cleared for _months_.”

The beauty of being his own boss, Castiel can take leave whenever he chooses. Unlike when he was a cop, there were no hoops needed jumping through for the smallest amount of vacation time. One of the many things he does not miss after leaving behind his whole life.

Castiel strolled into the office the afternoon after the fire, late by a few hours. Naomi waited for him at his desk, chin pointed like she were about to stab him with it. “Castiel,” she said, “why were you not at your station?” Her voice broke through the meaningless chatter and noise filling up the room, everyone biding their time until the show began.

He shrugged, “I had more important things.”

“More important than your job?” she asked, chuckling without an ounce of amusement. Lips barely moving at all.

“Yeah,” Castiel said, “it was.” Her disdain, alongside the tiny gasps erupting around the room, filled him an intense pleasure almost matched by the feeling of Dean’s mouth around his cock that morning.

Naomi stomped, a few hairs from her bun falling out and face flushed. “Watch how you speak Castiel,” she warned, “If you find a desk job not to your standards, I’m sure there’s another position I can have you fill _elsewhere_.”

Castiel remains unfazed. “You can keep your desk and your job, I only came for my things anyway.” He quit then, silent despite Naomi demanding answers. There wasn’t much he needed. What little he kept on the desk fit in his bag. Everything else he carried in his arms out of the building and towards where Dean waited.

His job wasn’t important, hadn’t been for the longest time. Pride kept him tethered there, forcing punishment on himself that he didn’t deserve. Meeting Dean, Castiel realized staying within a system that refuses to admit its brokenness, would only drive him mad. Besides, his future brightened considerably after leaving Charles’s. Moreso as they drove from his former precinct hand in hand.

With one-hundred thousand dollars, both he and Dean could invest in their dreams. Dean bought a garage somewhere downtown while Castiel rented the storefront below his apartment. As his commute was much shorter, he found a new appreciation for mornings.

“Hey,” Dean threads their fingers together, “since you’ll be eating dinner with your sister, do you wanna come visit for some lunch?”

Castiel answers with a kiss. “I’d love that,” he says, pulling away.

“Great.” They exchange a few more pleasantries – and kisses – Dean backing off when he realizes the time. “Sorry, Cas,” he laughs, tugging Castiel’s arms from his waist, “there’s an engine that needs fixing by eleven, and the bastard who brought it in put down a lot of money.”

“Like we need the money…”

“Rainy days, Cas,” he says, clapping his cheek, “only for rainy days.” With a final peck, Dean exits the store. Castiel leans against the counter, chuckling softly while his lips still tingle from their embrace.

Sighing, he continues readying his shop. Before stocking the rest of his books, he walks towards the closed windows. Throwing the curtains open, he finds Dean waiting there with his face pressed on the glass. “Dean -!”

Dean waves, grinning. Kissing the window, Dean winks at Castiel. His antics bring a wide smile burst onto Castiel’s face, doubled over in laughter. As he wipes tears from his eyes, Dean leaves for real. Disappearing from his line of sight.

Castiel’s heart swells with such happiness, he must lean on the window in fear of collapsing. When he recovers, Castiel flips the sign on the shop and turns. Those books won’t stack themselves.


End file.
